The Loud Warrior
by Flagg1991
Summary: AU. In a post-apocalyptic wasteland, a white haired drifter is caught in a war between a society of women and a band of outlaws lead by a muscle-bound fascist.
1. The Highwayman

The highway, a long, cracked ribbon of decomposing blacktop, deeply rutted, pockmarked, and broken here and there. A burned out car sat on the shoulder, its frame twisted and bared to dusty blue like the skeleton of some felled beast, a massive crow perched upon its roof and keeping watch with beady black eyes.

The landscape, rugged and dusty, hardpan dotted with scrub and thistle stretching to craggy mountains in the distance, their peaks rising over the desert like the serrated edge of a knife. Thin, wispy clouds sailed by overhead, pushed by a dry furnace wind redolent of earth, rot, and heat. Road signs, bent, faded, and riddled with bullet holes flashed past on the right, the writing illegible, the metal speckled with rust. A tractor trailer sat in the breakdown lane, its double doors thrown open and the area strewn with debris, brass casings, and dead bodies, bleached skulls staring into the brutal sun with gaping sockets.

The man, his face as rough and uninviting as the Mojave around him, his sharp chin covered in stubble and his flat brown eyes covered by polarized sunglasses. He wore the tattered remains of a black leather jacket, torn and grimy blue jeans, and cowboy boots with spurs on the heels. A brown leather holster hung from the belt around his waist, the smooth, dark oak handle of a revolver jutting out. A Glock was tucked into a second holster under his left arm, and a Colt Woodsman with a long barrel sat on the passenger seat, kept company by a sawed off shotgun with duct tape wrapped around the stock, a machete (its blade spotted with dried blood), and a portable radio that hadn't broadcast in nearly seven years. A CB rig sat in the dash, the low hiss of static issuing forth as it scanned endlessly up and down the band, picking up the occasional voice and, in recent memory, fant mariachi music.

Warm wind blew through the open window, rustling the man's white hair, dirty like New York snow, and the sound of nearly bald tires humming against the pavement lulled him, but not enough that he was rendered unaware - his senses were sharp, and at the first hint of something amiss, he would strike like a coiled cobra.

He'd been on the road longer than he could remember, the hands of his fingerless driving gloves hooked around the wheel from sunrise to sunset - he started in the east, then moved west to escape the chaos in the cities. The radio still spoke to him, then, bearing distant voices from Washington, Miami, and Boston. He met more people back then too - they were still Americans then, clinging to the old ways and telling themselves they'd come back from this. Today, those he met were traders, road pirates, and war torn refugees travelling in horse drawn caravans and seeking hope, peace, and a better tomorrow.

Only those things didn't exist anymore - they died out with the old world, reduced to irradiated cinder and starved like the masses during the many famines that followed the war. There was the road and nothing else - it lead to nowhere, had no beginning or end, and didn't care if you laid down and died along its length. To survive, you had to be strong, fast, and ruthless, to shoot first and ask questions never.

What exactly was he surviving for? He didn't know. He had nothing and no one, no future and a past burned away like impurities in the sun. His heart was hard, his disposition grim, and his nature ultimately selfish. He subsisted on the wreckage of the old world like a vulture - he had no hope, no faith, nothing but a few bullets for each of his guns, two days' water supply, and a three days' food ration. His lot never improved, nothing ever got better, he hopped from one fresh hell to another like a man jumping between hillocks in a bog. What point was there in going on?

Eh.

Got nothing better to do.

Presently, he topped a rise and shifted gears to avoid a broken down police car slanted across the yellow line. The road straightened and continued ahead, pools of heat shimmering here and there like phantom puddles. An armadillo scurried across, and the man briefly considered swerving to hit it for fun, but decided against it - bastard would probably fuck up his undercarriage. He glanced at the fuel gauge, and his thin lips pulled back from crooked teeth. Almost empty. He had a gas can in the trunk, but it held maybe a quarter tank's worth. He'd have to scavenge soon.

Slowing, the man leaned over, opened the glovebox, and pulled out a butterscotch. He unwrapped it and plopped it into his mouth. In the early days he smoked, but tobacco was hard to come by now. Liquor still flowed, but only for the right price. He was never a drinker - booze dulls your sense and compromises your mental clarity. You can't fight when you're drunk, you can only roll over and take it in the ass.

He'd be damned if he let that happen.

Settling back against the ripped leather seat, he glanced absently into the rearview mirror, and froze when he caught a quick flash of movement, then a glimmer as of sunlight on metal. He leaned forward and lifted his shades, steering with one hand. A vehicle zoomed over the rise and came up fast, its body a mishmash of clashing parts, cab open, metal roll bar, spikes and barbed wire on the grill. Another whipped around from behind and drew up beside the first. There were three men in the first and two in the second; bare skin, leather, studs, mohawks, and white facepaint with black streaks.

Highwaymen.

Hissing a curse through his teeth, the man grabbed the wheel with both hands and pressed on the gas, surging forward with a low, guttural _vroom_. The first buggy gave chase, pulling ahead of the others. The passenger stood up, braced himself against the roll bar, and aimed a rifle. The man winced just before the back window shattered. He instinctively hunched over the wheel to make a smaller target of himself, and jerked itl hard left then right in as loose a zigzag pattern as he could manage while still maintaining speed. The buggy zipped forward and the gunman fired again, the bullet pinging off the frame. The man glanced over his shoulder just as a third round struck him in the shoulder a spurt of blood. Hot, searing pain shot into the center of his brain and he cried out.

Alright.

Now he was mad.

Baring his teeth against the pain, he reached out, picked up the shotgun, and half-turned in his seat. He aimed and pulled the trigger; the gun jumped in his hand and a blast of buckshot pelted the grill of the approaching machine. The gunman ducked, and the man fired again, taking out the windsield in a shower of glass. The driver jerked the wheel and stomped on the gas, the second buggy taking its spot. The first came even with his back end, racing to match his pace and pull alongside, and the man stamped on the break while simotaniously bringing the shotgun around. He glimpsed a flash of the rifleman and jerked the trigger; the roar of exploding gunpowder filled his ears and the stinging heat of detonation bathed his face. The rifleman toppled out and rolled across the pavement, the ashpault ripping his naked chest to ribbons.

The second buggy collided hard with the man's rear and sent him careening forward. The rifleman got to his knees and turned just as the man's front end smashed into him; screaming, he was sucked under the tires, and the car jostled as it passed over him. It started to fishtail, and the man held the wheel tight, pulling out and leaving the blacktop. Clouds of dust kicked up and the two buggies started for him. He spun the wheel to the left, met the highway once more, and pressed his foot hard against the gas. The buggies, side-by-side with hardly a gap between them, bore down on him, and, gritting his teeth, he picked up the Woodsman and sped up to meet them head-on. The drivers both widened their eyes in shock and swerved to avoid being hit. The man sailed between them, then spun the wheel, tires screeching on the pavement.

No _he _was behind _them_. Ha. The hunter becomes the hunted. Pressing on the gas, he came up behind the closest buggy and smashed into its back end, metal screaming and bending. The gunman sat against the back of the passenger seat, his hand pressed to his guts and blood oozing between his fingers. His face was covered in white war paint, lips and eyes ringed black, and his black hair writhed from his head in short, snakelike dreadlocks. He weakly lifted a pistol, which swayed back and forth, and the man raised the Woodsman, aimed for the head, and fired; the top of the gunman's skull blew out in a shower of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments, splattering the seat. His eyes rolled in their sockets and he slumped over, dead. The driver tossed a worried glance over his shoulder, completely alone now, and sped up to escape.

Uh-uh.

The lead buggy pulled forward and fishtailed as the driver fought to keep control, and the second tried to catch up. The man fell back, waited a second, then shot forward again, slamming the buggy and shoving it forward. His mind hazed like a shark with the scent of blood in its nose, and aiming the Woodsman, he fired at the driver seat. The driver arched his back and screamed, his hands leaving the wheel; the buggy spun out of control, and the man swevered to miss it. In the rearview, it went off the road, flipped, and tumbled end over end into the desert before coming to rest in a tempest of dirt, smoke, and steam. The man changed lanes and came up behind the second buggy. The passenger scurried into the back compartment, a carbine clutched in his hands, and ducked behind a wooden crate with US ARMY stencled across the side. He laid the rifle on top and opened up; bullets struck the front end, and the man swerved. He aimed the Woodsman and fired. The buggy threaded back and forth in a pattern much like the one the man employed earlier. He matched it, aimed again, and fired; the round struck the windshield, and it spider-veined.

The road veered to the left and wound around a rocky hillside. The gunman fired again, missing, and the man returned, hitting the crate. From the corner of his eye, the man saw the driver lean forward and flip a switch. Suddenly, fire leapt from hidden exhaust pipes, and the buggy took off like a missile. The man bared his teeth and pushed harder on the gas; his heart thumped and his stomach throbbed with bloodlust. He wasn't going to let them get away - he'd kill them, rob them, then piss on their bodies. He might even string one up as a warning to other pirates - fuck with me and die.

The buggy hurtled along a straight away and disappeared around a turn a mile off. The man hunched over the wheel, as if by doing so he could urge the car faster. His long, crooked fingers, calloused by years of toil and torment, closed hard, his eyes glinted with savagery, and his teeth ground together with an audible grating sound. The front end shook, the engine whined, and the frame vibrated dangerously. He held fast to the wheel, scooted to the edge of his seat, and rounded the corner.

The dune buggy sat smashed against the overturned trailer of a Mac truck. The man was upon it before he could stop, and his heart blasted into his throat. He panicked and yanked the wheel to the left. He didn't see the drop until it was too late; the car careened through the guardrail and soared through open air, fifty feet above the desert floor, the tires spinning and the nose angling down. The man's stomach jumped into his mouth and he braced himself for impact. The front end hit with a violent jolt, the sound of smashing glass and crunching metal like Armageddon in his ears, and the car danced along the ground like a wheel, shedding pieces of itself and digging a long trench in the dirt. The man's head hit the wheel, and darkness stole over him.

He did not wake for a long time.


	2. Badlands

The man drifted. In the void, faces long dead returned to him, looming from the shadows like grinning night ghouls, teeth sharp, eyes twinkling with sadistic glee. Some reached out, and he pulled away with uncharacteristic fright, certain that if they touched him, he would become a specter himself, cursed to be forever trapped in the twilight world betwixt the land of the living and the land of the dead. He walked now through the slanted passageways of a haunted house that resembled his childhood home, but somehow _wasn't_. Now, he shuffled through the streets of his hometown. Doors stood open. Lawns overgrown. Corpses littering the sidewalk. He looked fearfully left and right at the dark, shuddered houses lining the street. They were in there, he knew, watching through rotted curtains, seeing him, envying him, _hating _him, their loathing thick in the air. His heart raced and he told himself not to run, to pretend they weren't there, for if he _did _start to run, they would come out of hiding and take him - ten, fifteen, a thousand, shambling with outstretched arms and decomposing faces like zombies in an old B movie.

Shortly, the scene changed, and he was walking up the center lane of a desolate highway surrounded by a blasted moonscape strewn with boulders, trash, and the wreckage of a world passed on. A bare, gibbous moon kept baleful watch over the wasteland, its ghastly silver light casting black and threatening shadows that squirmed in the corner of the man's vision; if he turned his back on them, they would separate from the ground and come for him with gaping eyes and yawning mouths. There were other pilgrims on the road, their hideous faces revealed in the cemetery glow: A woman he may once have loved, a man with whom he was friends, a little girl with ribbons in her hair that looked just like him...save for her ripped flesh, coal irises, and twisted fangs. The man stared straight ahead in an attempt to ignore them, tears leaking from his eyes; they whispered, however, dark secrets from beyond that grave that he could hear if he stepped just a little closer, strained a _little _harder, secrets that no living being was meant to now, secrets that would drag him to the rim of madness and past the veil of death.

Without warning, something clasped his hand, and the icy chill of the undead blew through his soul like a raw November wind. He didn't want to look...couldn't look...but was powerless as his neck muscles creaked and his head turned.

His daughter grinned coldly up at him. _Hi, Daddy, _she piped soullessly. _I got lonely so I came back. Do we have any fruit snacks? _

As she lay dying in the grip of fever in a roadside inn deep in the woods of Vermont, emaciated with starvation and delirious with flu, she asked for fairy princess fruit snacks, her favorite treat.

But they didn't have any.

Horror blasted like a bomb in his chest, and he wrenched away, coming awake with a wheeze and sitting bolt upright, his head throbbing sickly. For a second, her voice lingered in the chambers of his soul and he jerked his head left and right, expecting to see her wayward spirit standing there, watching, seething, hating him for letting her die. Instead, he saw only thistle astir in the cool evening breeze. The sky above was soft shades of purple and orange, and early rising stars glinted like diamonds. Panting, he fought to catch his breath, a hot stitch flaring in his side. He lifted one hand to his swimming head, and winced at the pain coursing through his body from seemingly every nerve center: His shoulder throbbed dully, his knee panged, his temples pounded, and his right ankle blared. He licked his chapped lips and furrowed his brows in contemplation. Where was he? He scanned his surroundings again, hissing at the stiffness in his neck; ahead, the rugged, rock littered terrain swept back to the horizon. To his right, open desert dotted by gnarled Joshua Trees and headed by those same blasted mountains that seemed to always follow you like the eyes of an old painting. At his left, a steep, sandy hillside climbed up to a ridgeline topped by a metal guardrail broken in one place, the steel twisted and jutting out over the precipice like the outstretched arms of Christ Himself.

Befuddled, the man rubbed the side of his head and tried to remember what happened; dense fog swirled in his mind, blocking out memories. Which was just as well; they were never any good anyway.

His breathing was normal now, and he turned to look over his shoulder. His face dropped when he saw his car. Six feet away, maybe ten, it sat on its roof, the ass end sticking up unto heaven and the front crumpled like a soda can. Debris scattered the ground: Metal, broken glass, shards of plastic, his shotgun, a pulverized black mass that turned out to be his radio, and a million other things, his life and possessions entire.

"God_damn _it," he sighed and slumped his shoulders. Perfect...just perfect. Anger welled up within him, and he slammed one bootheel against the ground. Twisting around, he got onto his knees and tried to stand, but a hot jet of pain rushed up his leg. He cried out and sank to the ground, his breathing coming in great big gulps again. This wasn't good. He was hurt, without wheels, totally exposed to the elements...and night was falling fast.

Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for what was to come, he got to his hands and knees and scuttled toward the car, each movement sending bolts of agony into his brain. He clenched his teeth and issued a low, warbling groan, then collapsed to his stomach when he reached the overturned vehicle. His lungs sucked air and his ankle pulsated like a dying heart, sending ripples of excruciation into his nauseous stomach. He swallowed hard, reached out, and grabbed the door handle, then, with a cry, he pulled himself to a sitting position and sat back against the frame, legs before him in a V. He took a series of deep breaths and let them out in shaky puffs; slimy sweat ran down his face in warm rivulets and his ankle beat in the time with his heart. The sun was fully down now, the western sky blazing with rapidly fading color and more stars appearing every minute. A needling chill crept into the air, and the easterly breeze cooled steadily until the perspiration dried on his skin and goosebumps raked his arms. Nighttime temperatures in the Mojave routinely dipped into the thirties - with a fire and his sleeping bag, he could handle it easily, but bared the way he was, he'd freeze inside of three hours.

He needed to search for his things.

Which meant moving.

"God_damn _it," he repeated and ran his fingers through his hair. He had no other choice - it was getting dark and he needed to act _now._

Reaching behind him, he gripped the handle again, drew a fortifying breath, and turned, pain enveloping him in its hateful embrace. He gritted his teeth and lowered himself carefully to his stomach. He was at eye level with the open driver side window now. Balling his fists, he braced his forearms against the ground, got his knees under him, and slithered forward like a serpent. The pain was exquisite, but he ignored it.

Half in the shadow filled car now, he shifted through the detritus on the roof, now the floor, his fingers questing and brushing miscellania before closing around the grip of the Woodsman. He held it close to his face and checked the breech. Two rounds left.

He tossed the gun behind him, and it discharged, making him jump.

One round.

Writhing, he pulled himself fully into the car and crawled into the back. His bedroll sat next to an overly large canteen of water as if placed just so by a caring God. He grabbed the latter and shook; the contents sloshed, and only now did he realize how thirsty he was. He shakily unscrewed the cap and took a big, greedy gulp, some of the liquid dribbling down the corners of his mouth. He forced himself to stop lest he drink it all, returned the cap, and swiped the back of one gloved hand across his lips. Grabbing the sleeping bag, he wiggled back out and tossed it into the dirt. The last of the light drained from the sky and a biting wind danced across the plains, whistling an eerie tune as it threaded through the foothills. He needed to build a fire. He patted his hip pocket and felt the telltale outline of the tarnished silver Zippo. He looked around for something to burn, but there was only thistle, which, at best, would produce tangy, eye-stinging smoke.

Rolling his eyes long-sufferingly, he crawled back into the car and felt around.

There wasn't much.

In the back, he found the faded rucksack containing his clothes and the few personal possessions he salvaged from his home in Michigan. Fabric wouldn't burn long, but he didn't have much of a choice.

Back outside, he upended the bag into the dirt and rescued one item: A slim leather bound photo album that he slipped into his jacket. He ripped some thistle from the ground, shoved it underneath the pile, and touched the Zippo to it. After a few attempts, it caught, and dense smoke billowed into the air. A few moments later, the clothes went up, and he sat back against the car, his chest heaving and pain radiating through him. He glanced at the Woodsman, picked it up, and sat it in his lap. He felt for the revolver on his hip, found it, and nodded to himself.

His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it; foraging for food meant going back into the car, and he didn't have the energy. Instead, he laid his hands on the ground, pushed himself up straighter, and issued a pained gasp. He bent his right knee, grabbed the denim covering his leg, picked his leg up with a hiss, and dragged his foot onto his left knee in a rough 4-shape. His head pulsed with hot misery and he took a long moment to catch his breath before leaning over, pulling his boot off (slow to minimize the pain), then his sock. His ankle was purple and swollen; he prodded it with his fingertip and grimaced. Sprained, he thought, but not broken. That was good. A sprain would heal, but if it was broken, he was dead.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled his sock and boot back on, stretched his legs out in front of him, and leaned his head back against the door. Goosebumps ran up and down his arms and a keen shiver cut through him. He could stand the cold, but it would probably be wise to sleep in the car tonight - the last shit he needed right now was a roaring case of pneumonia to go along with his wounded foot.

He drew a deep breath and gazed into the fire, which burned low and feeble. It threw off very little warmth, its light petering out by degrees and the night closing in until it was out and darkness swaddled the man. The moon was bright enough to see by, its luminescence bathing the world in a silvery shine. The man's stomach growled and he wished he took some food from the car.

Just to be absolutely sure, he patted his pockets on the off chance he forgot a packet of crackers or a strip of cured beef (both of which were plentiful among the caravans he traded with), but the cupboards were bare. Damn. Something brushed his leg, and he looked down: A scorpion watched him warily, its tail poised ready to strike. Hm. Another gift from God. At this rate, he'd have his family back in no time.

He laughed...then he lifted his hand as if in a hale greeting and dropped it as hard as he could on the scorpion, smashing it into the dust. In its final moment, it whipped its tail and sank its barbed stinger into the soft webbing between his thumb and forefinger; his face made nary a tic. He pulled it out, ripped the tail off, and threw it away. He held the body in both hands and cracked it down the center like a crab. Squinting to see, he found the venom gland, plucked it out, and dropped it into the dirt. He checked the area around the sting; the skin was an angry shade of pink and ached mutedly, which told him the venom wasn't very potent.

Dodged a bullet there.

Grinning sardonically, he brought on half of the bug to his lips and sucked its insides into his mouth. They were warm and coppery on his tongue, the bitter taste pinching the back of his throat and coating the insides of his cheeks. He preferred them cooked, but right now it was ala carte. Or whatever the fancy fucking word for _raw _was. In his time on the road, he'd eaten a lot of things, many of them sans the benefit of being properly prepared. His favorite was buffalo heart (they covered the prairie like grass now, the way they did two hundred years ago). His least favorite was tarantula: If you didn't roast it, the insides were runny. Plus there was hardly any meat on them, and what there was had all the flavor of cardboard. Rabbit was good, but it didn't have enough fat to sustain you on its own. See, with meat, there has to be a perfect balance between fat and protein. Too much protein, and you wind up wth protein sickness, which is fatal. He'd seen it more times than he could count.

Scorpions, though not as good as rabbit even when cooked, are balanced enough that you can eat as many as you can catch.

He ate the second half, then tossed the remains onto the heap of charred clothes. The moon arched steadily over the desert, and for a time, the man watched it with mild interest. Long ago, as a boy, he dreamed of one day going to space - flying in shuttles, walking on distant planets, being the first man to discover alien life...and the first to kick its ass. Like all boys, however, he grew up and realized that space sucked - girls was where it was at. He met one, gave up notions of missions to Mars, and settled down with her. Sometimes, when they were dating, they'd spread a blanket out on the ground and look up at the very same moon upon which he gazed now, the same moon looked upon by Galileo and Keats; it had always been there, steadfast and unchanging through it all. Boggles the mind when you think of it.

The man looked away. He was a dreamer once, but no more. The dreamer died on the side of a no name road in Vermont four years ago.

He let out a sad sigh and turned to his right, intent on getting to his stomach and crawling into the car, but stopped. Something slunk through the shadows, low to the ground. The man's heart skipped. He knew what it was even before it emerged. A coyote, its sleek frame covered in matted fur and its lips peeled back over its sharp teeth in a bellicose sneer.

Where there was one, there were bound to be others, and here they came, three more materializing from the darkness like nightmare apparitions. All were thin to the point of emaciation, their ribs sticking prominently out and their elongated faces crisscrossed with scars from battles past. One was missing an eye, its socket puckered and oozing puss, and another's right ear hung by fraying threads of sinew. The man's stomach clenched and his heart pounded furiously against his ribs. Everyone, no matter how tough, has that One Thing that strikes insufferable fear into their soul...for him it was vicious dogs. His mouth went dry and his eyes widened, every muscle in his body locking like air brakes on an icy road. The first coyote lowered its head and growled deep in the back of its throat. It came forward, and the others, emboldened, started closing in as well, their low, rumbling snarls worming into the man's brain.

In a flash, he came alive with a sharp intake of breath. He reached for the revolver, and sensing danger, one of the coyotes sprang at him, its forepaws out in front of it. The man swung the gun around and squeezed off a shot without aiming. The round crashed into the coyote's face and knocked it back with a reflexive yelp. The one on his right snarled and flew at him as the other two came on from the front. He fired again, the bullet grazing the side of another's head - it cried out and danced back, is tangling feet kicking up puffs of dust. He started to turn to the right just as the dog there clamped its powerful jaws closed around his forearm, its fangs shredding leather and puncturing flesh. Adrenaline shot through him and he felt no pain, only pressure, his fear gone now and replaced by the dumb, blind, bursting will to live. The other threw itself at him, its teeth snapping. He fired and its face dissolved. He pulled the trigger again, and the one he grazed was flung back, landing in a heap.

The one on his arm bit harder and furiously shook its head, its razor-like fangs raking muscles and tendon. The man cried instinctively out, and his hand opened on reflex, the gun clattering to the ground. He grabbed its face in his free hand and desperately searched for its eyes with his thumbs. Perhaps anticipating ths, the coyote shook its head faster and pushed itself against him, its paws coming to rest on his leg. Its claws sank into the top of his thigh and pain rushed to his head. He screamed and his balance upset; he toppled over, landing in the dust like a fallen oak. The coyote scrambled on top of him, its fevered, furry weight pinning him to the ground, and growled as it lunged for his throat.

Mindless in his panic, the man threw up his bloody forearm and blocked, the dog's face stopping inches from his own. Its rank, fetid breath broke hotly against his face and burning saliva dripped from its fangs. Its claws ripped clumsily at his chest as it sought purchase, like a doe slipping on ice, and the man capitalized by summoning all his might and shoving while simultaneously rolling to one side. The dog skidded away, but surged forward again before the man could sit up, hitting him like a train and knocking him to the right; the side of his head collided with the car and white agony exploded in his skull.

Okay.

Now he was mad.

His rage came suddenly, like it always did, a nuclear blast turning night to day and consuming the very earth and heavens. The dog bit his shoulder, and with a primal scream, he balled his fist and brought it around in a deadly arc; it collided with the demon's snout and knocked it aside. The man rolled to his knees, every ache, pain, and torment in his body burned away in his fury, and slipped a knife from a sheath on his belt. The coyote faced him warily, its head lowered and its ears flattened against its head. It issued a low, threatening growl. The man locked their gazes and wrapped his fingers tight around the handle; his chest heaved, his eyes flashed, and the corners of his mouth twitched up in a doglike sneer of his own. The coyote jumped at him, and he slashed the knife hard against its face; it yelped and drew back, then circled him, murder in its glowing yellow orbs. The man spun slowly with it, panting, throbbing, seething. He was vaguely aware of his blood falling like rain on the dirt and of his ankle pounding in tune with his heart, but he ignored those things; killing the carrion-eating motherfucker in front of him was all that mattered. There was no world, no longer any highway, no past, no future, nowhere else but here and now, him and the dog warily casing him like a flesh eating burglar. It jerked forward, and the man slashed air. It barked, and he tossed the knife mockingly from one hand to the other, unaware that he was doing so. "Come on," he taunted, his voice ragged and shallow, "come on, you piece of shit."

The coyote slunk toward him, its body tensing. The man gripped the knife and held up his free arm, elbow bent, forearm across his chest. The dog paused as if having second thoughts, but its hunger decided for it; it sprang at him, frenzied and irrational, and baring his teeth, the man brought the knife up.

The dog's throat crashed into his forearm and the blade sank satisfyingly into its soft underbelly, its eyes widening in shock. The man grinned, and twisted, taking savage glee in the way the creature whimpered. It wrenched back, but the man caught it around the throat with one hand and squeezed. Blood gushed around the knife and drenched his hand, urging him on. He twisted, thrusted, and pulled; its guts fell out in a steaming pile and landed in his lap. The dog whipped its head back and forth as if in denial of its defeat, and tried to escape, but the man held fast, throttling it.

Soon, the hellish light in its eyes drained away, and the fight went out of it. It gave one final body-wide shudder, then fell limp. The man redoubled his grip, wanting to make damn sure it was dead and in hell before letting go. A minute passed, two, then, with a distasteful chuff, he flung it away and fell back against the car. He trembled as the adrenaline leaked away, and a million red, pulsating points of pain crowded his consciousness. He fought to regulate his runaway breath and swiped his hand across his sweat sheened forehead. In the ghostly light of the moon, four dark shapes lay on their sides like the scattered after effects of a giant, celestial child's temper tantrum; the man flicked his eyes from one to the other, searching for movement but seeing none. Next, he rolled his sleeve up and checked the wound on his forearm: Six oozing puncture marks marred his flesh in a rough semi-circle. He examined them with his fingertips; shallow, non life-threatening. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a blue banana, and wrapped it around the area to staunch the bleeding, pulling it tight with his teeth.

Done, he swallowed hard and shifted; something pressed down on his lap and his heart sputtered. He looked down and let out a sigh of relief. Just coyote guts.

His stomach rumbled.

Hesitating only briefly, he dug his hands into the steaming pile and came back with a liver, slick and wet in his grasp. The liver filters toxins, and eating it raw is a good way to get sick. He tossed it into the night and went for the spleen instead; it gushed when he bit down, and the wild, coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. He tore a chunk off with his teeth and chewed; the consistency reminded him of his great-grandmother's Jello molds and he way it felt sliding down the back of his throat made him shiver. He ate every last bit, though. When he was done, pangs quivered through his stomach like the waving of a white flag. _I'm full, no more, please. _

Being satiated increased his body temperature, but he was still cold, and every breeze made him shiver. He lowered himself to his stomach, grabbed his sleeping bag, and crawled into the car. Inside, he rolled up the window, closing out the wind, and kicked out of his boots; his movements were slow, stiff, and sent flaring pain into his brain. He pulled the bag up around his chest, zipped it, and rolled onto his side.

Of all the miseries in the world, sleep was the worst, because in sleep, he dreamed, and every dream was a nightmare, even the good ones...especially the good ones. Most nights, he lay awake for hours before dropping off; now, however, he was asleep in minutes.

And this time, he did not dream.

* * *

The man spent three days at the wreck before leaving. He should have waited two or three more days to fully heal, but he ran out of water at the end of day two - even though he drank sparingly - and without water, he would be dead in days.

Staying in one place more than a single night was strange to him, and it left him feeling restless and vulnerable. He passed the majority of the daylight hours in the car, hidden from view. That first morning, he woke to find a tarantula on his chest, its hairy legs splayed and its black eyes fixed on him in fear. He killed it and ate it raw for breakfast. Afterwards, he dragged himself into the arid day and killed time skinning one of the coyotes. Its meat would taste good roasted on a spit, and its pelt would provide an additional layer of warmth for the long night ahead. Moving was hard and when he tried to stand, his ankle gave out and spilled him to the desert floor. Holding onto the car for support, he walked on his knees to the trunk and opened it, all of the contents cascading out and littering the ground. Sifting through, he found a first aid kit and, sitting against the driver door, he dressed his wounds as best he could, splashing alcohol onto the festering bites and dry swallowing a handful of aspirin. He left his boots off to keep pressure from his ankle, and sat in the blazing sun until he couldn't stand it anymore and retreated into the car.

He came back out in the cool purple afterglow of evening. The road above stood empty, a hushed pall hanging over the wastelands like the somber silence of a funeral train. Sitting there, his gaze drifted to the Joshua Trees fanning across the hardpan, thirsty scrub brush covering the ground between them. He needed a fire for warmth and cooking, and Joshua Trees made damn good kindling. He had a machete...he just didn't know if his ankle would support him.

He retrieved the machete from the car, jammed the blade against the ground, and used it to help him stand. Vertigo crashed over him like a wave and he swayed back and forth, legs shaky, in danger of falling. He kept his balance, though, and favoring his good foot, he limped toward the grove, his body slightly bent at the waist and his free arm dangling at his side. Each step was grueling and by the time he leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree, he was panting and coated in piss warm sweat.

Gripping the handle, he hacked at the thin branches, then threw them into a pile. He did this to three before shoving the big knife into his belt like a sword. He collected the wood and returned to the car, shambling and leaking tears of pain. When he was at the car, he fell to his knees and took a long moment to let the shakes pass.

An hour later, darkness fell, its advance held at bay by a feeble ring of flickering firelight. The man carefully wrapped thin strips of coyote meat around a knotted stick and held it over the crackling flames. When it was done, he ate it like shishkabob; it was stringy and gamey but good nonetheless. He ate ravenously at first, rending and tearing with his teeth like an animal, then gradually slowed until he was stuffed. He cooked a little more and wrapped it in a shirt for tomorrow - it would last until then, but not much longer unless he turned it into jerky, which was a time consuming process he didn't plan on sticking around for.

After dinner, he stared into the fire. He wanted to leave in the morning, but he didn't think he was well enough. He _knew _he was in no condition to scale the hillside up to the highway. When he _did _leave, he'd have to follow it until the terrain leveled out again. Going in any other direction, deeper into the barrens, was out of the question - there was nothing for miles, and he'd wind up more lost than Moses. He meditated on the question of trying to hike out at dawn, and finally decided to wait. He had enough water to see him through at least tomorrow night if he rationed it; once he was out, he'd have to go whether he was ready or not.

Later, he wiggled through the driver side window, rolled it up, and lay on his back; his arm throbbed hotly and every time he shifted positions, his ankle panged, but overall, he felt okay; maybe he could make it out tomorrow after all.

He woke at the first grayish hint of dawn from a nightmare that echoed through the corridors of his mind long after he shimmied back out the window and built a makework fire. He couldn't remember much of it in any detail, only that he was back in Vermont during the early days of the Collapse, cold, tired, scared, and watching his little girl slowly fade by the harsh white light of a Coleman lantern. They were travelling north with a migrant caravan on I-91 toward Stovington, Maine, where the government had established an aid camp when she took sick; they'd been on the road for over a month in the dreary November cold, and though he did his best to keep her dry and warm, she caught influenza. They had to stop, and the others kept on without them, lost souls with shadow faces and downcast eyes, all their worldly possessions crammed into sacks and suitcases. None offered help or comfort, and the man guessed he couldn't blame them - many had their own little boys and girls to worry about.

Why didn't he kill himself after she died? Staring into the fire, he wondered that for the millionth time, and like each past recollection, he failed to come up with an answer. Maybe he was too much of a coward to kill himself. Maybe he was punishing himself. He cast a look around - the steep, rocky hillside, the rustling scrub brush, the twisted Joshua Trees like fingers clawing from shallow graves, the rocks littered across the cracked and seering hardpan, the blazing sun filling the piercing blue sky. Sweat trickled down his forehead, from under his arms, and down the cleft of his ass; the skin of his face stung lightly with sunburn; and his dry lips ached. If he was punishing himself, he was doing a damn good job of it.

Mid-afternoon, he ate the rest of the coyote meat and washed it down with a single gulp of warm water. The canteen was just over a quarter full, and as he screwed the cap back on, he frowned at the way its meager contents sloshed. He'd be out in a couple hours, maybe even less.

That night, sitting before the fire shortly after sundown, he swallowed the last of the water, replaced the cap, and chucked the canteen into the dust. The moon sat high in the inky heavens, its glowing face wrapped in thin, ragged clouds like rotted burial clothes. The man stared up at it and pursed his lips in thought. He'd leave at first light and follow the road until he could get back on. If he was lucky, he'd happen along a wagon train or one of the settlements that dot the Mojave like pimples. He didn't have much to trade, but there were always things to steal - he took his last car from a constable in New Town, a fishing community on the jagged coastline defining the desert's western edge. Before that, he had a horse with no name which he stole from a merchant in Baja.

He was stirred from his reprieve when a high, mournful howl rose in the distance; it echoed eerily through the night like the cry of a wayward spirit, then was joined by another, then another, then another still. A knot popped in the fire, and the man jumped, his heartbeat speeding up in dread anticipation. Coyotes. He touched the revolver sitting in his lap like a frightened boy seeking strength from a crucifix. The chorus reached a wavering crescendo, then gradually faded until the only sound was the crackling of flames. The man listened for a long time, head cocked, and when it came again, it was farther away.

Even so, he rolled onto his stomach, crawled into the car, and rolled the window up. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, and didn't wake again until the next morning; warm sunshine spilled through the window and warmed his face He muttered, stirred, and rolled onto his right side. His bladder was full and a tension headache smoldered over his left eye; he stretched, and his stiff joints popped audibly. He yawned, rolled down the window, and scuttled out, the handpan stinging his palms. He pushed woozily to his feet and tested his bad ankle - it was sore, but the pain was dull twinge rather than the fiery apocalypse it was two days ago. He'd have to stop and rest frequently to avoid overtaxing himself, which would retard his search for water, but that's just the way it was.

Before leaving, he packed a faded green rucksack with provisions: The remainder of his food, an emergency bottle of water he completely forgot he had (there was enough in it for two or three gulps, and that was it), spare ammunition (eight rounds for the revolver, two for the Woodsman, and four shells for the shotgun), the machete, his photo album, matches, his bedroll, a compass, a knife, fishing line, black powder, and assorted odds and ends. He sat it on the ground next to the car and hobbled over to the pile of sticks he gathered the day before. He scanned them, spotted one roughly six feet and 1 ½ in diameter, and picked it up, his fingers closing around the rough shaft. One end was slightly tapered, and it curved slightly in the middle. He gripped it, jammed the end against the ground, and leaned his weight on it.

It held.

Using the walking stick to support himself, he limped over to the bag and hefted it up. Leaning the stick against the car, he threaded his arms through the pack's straps, one hand holding himself up on the tire, then grabbed the stick again and looked up the embankment. From here, he could just make out the roofs of stalled cars thronging the highway - he counted a dozen. Smash-ups were a sad fact of life, like genital warts, but in the years since the Collapse, many were cleared from the more frequently traveled routes. The presence of a jam here told him this road wasn't used very often, which didn't bode well for his chances of coming across a village; if the roads were blocked, there weren't likely any close by.

The man sighed and looked around the crash site one last time, then started walking, the stick tapping the crust and sinking into the occasional soft patch. At the bottom of the slope, he turned left and lurched along its base. An arid breeze blew over him, ruffling his lank white hair and plastering a few loose strands to his slick forehead. A quarter mile from the car, he sank onto a boulder to rest; he was panting, covered in sweat, and his throat was dry and tacky. He slung the bag off, dropped it onto the ground, and rummaged through it until he found the water bottle. He twisted the cap and took a long drink; it was hot, slimey, and full of grit - if he remembered correctly, he took it from a river then boiled it. Or did he boil it? He probably did. Maybe. Oh, who cared.

Replacing the cap, he shoved the bottle back into the bag and wiped his face, the stubble on his chin scraping his palm. When was the last time he shaved? He tried to remember but couldn't - everything leading up to the accident was hazy, like visions shrouded in fog. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was trading three bottles of whiskey to a man for a box of shotgun shells. He _thought _that was less than a week ago, but wasn't sure.

He put the pack on again, used the walking stick to stand, and set off, picking his way along the bottom of the hill. The road bent sharply to the right and the land with it; there were more rocks here, most small but some large as cars. He carefully navigated them, and stopped to rest when his ankle started burning.

Eventually, the terrain flattened out, and the embankment gradually lowered. Dense tangles of scrub interspersed with Joshua Trees, and clusters of cacti boasting pink blossoms covered the ground. The man kicked through them, wincing at the strain in his ankle, and climbed up to the highway - vegetation grew between cracks in the blacktop and thin layers of safe were drifted here and there. A tour bus sat in the breakdown lane, trash, suitcases, and clothing scattered around it. He shambled over and checked the outside compartments for anything useful, but they were empty.

The road continued arrow straight into the distance, the desert around it thirsty, brown, and hardscrabble. The man followed it through the afternoon, at one point stopping to rest on the hood of an abandoned Chevy. He took a towel from the bag and wrapped it around his head like an Arab - it wasn't very comfortable, but it kept the sun off. Three miles from the bus, the road crossed a dry river bed over a concrete bridge. Beyond, a small town spread out on the north bank, its skyline defined by a blue water tower and a set of frozen oil derricks set apart from everything else by a half mile. The man paused and leaned against the retaining wall, his breath coming in short, hot gasps. His ankle was starting to hurt and he wasn't sure he could make much progress before darkfall. He'd rather stop now and shelter here than keep going and have to camp in the wilderness.

Pushing away, he limped down the center line then followed the off ramp. Narrow, sandy streets ran past dirt coated storefronts with smashed out windows. A skeleton lay in front of a movie theater box office, its arms out on either side of it like Christ upon the cross and its gaping eye sockets seething with bugs. A wreck sat in the middle of an intersection - a pick up truck kissing the driver door of a Taurus - and a metal sign over a doorway creaked rustily in the wind. The man looked left and right as he walked, each step coming harder and the pain growing. He was almost to the wreck when a sound rose behind him. Heart in throat, he whipped around just in time to catch a flash of white disappearing down an alley between a bank and barber shop.

A raider.

He yanked the revolver from its holster and cocked the hammer.

"Drop it!" someone shouted. Another raider leaned out of a second story window to his left - clad in white and holding a gun. Their face was hidden behind a baseball catcher's mask. It sounded like a woman.

The man started to turn, intent on blasting the bitch, but three more people, all dressed similarly, swarmed him from all sides, each hunched defensively and aiming guns, moving with the practiced wariness of a SWAT team - an MP5 here, a double barrel shotgun there. His stomach knotted. He was surrounded.

"Drop the fucking gun!" one of them, also a woman, ordered. She wore gray shoulder pads, knee pads, and elbow pads; black combat boots; a wire mask; and an olive green flak jacket over her chest. Her thick brown hair was held back in a simple and pragmatic ponytail, and through the slots in her mask, the man glimpsed hard brown eyes. He looked at each of them in turn and while he couldn't be certain, he thought they were _all _women.

"Do it," another growled, "_now." _

This one was slimmer, her hair, the color of old rust, in a ponytail like her comrade.

The first, whom the man took to be the leader, stepped forward and shoved her gun at him. "Put it down or we'll shoot," she warned.

The decision to fight back was not a conscious one, but rather instinct, like breathing or blinking. In this world, the man had learned, you either die on your feet or live on your knees, and he sure as shit wouldn't live on his knees. He lifted the gun, and as one, they opened fire, dozens of rounds pelted his chest and stomach, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground. Red, throbbing agony enfolded him, roaring like a five alarm fire, and he let out a long, low moan. Every breath sent sharp pangs through his body, and his vision started to gray.

Here it was.

Death at long last.

All the pain, all the misery, all the nightmares...gone. The knowledge that he let his little girl die then abandoned her body in some godforsaken part of rural Vermont, that no matter how many raiders he killed or opponents he bested, he failed in the one thing for which a man is worth...protecting his family...it was over. Finally fucking over.

Warm, fuzzy peace descended over him, and a wan, weak smile touched his lips.

The sun blotted out when the leader loomed over him. He couldn't see her eyes, but he knew they would be filled with the savage satisfaction of a triumphant predator. The one thing he didn't like about being killed was it hurt his pride.

Just a little.

His fingers twitched as he felt for the gun, but it wasn't there - it must have flown from his hand when they shot him.

There was only one thing he could do.

Licking his dry lips, he glared up at her. "Fuck you, bitch," he croaked.

Then lost consciousness.


	3. The Town on the Edge of Forever

Darkness, total and warm. For the second time in four days, the man drifted on its tides, free of pain, free of burden, free, even, of the cumbersome body in which he, like everyone, was locked. He saw things in the black, like an Indian shaman glimpsing visions on a spiritual peyote high: Slats of light falling across his eyes; drawn, expressionless faces; freckled cheeks and brown eyes; the dirty blue sky; head swimming, blurry, noises cutting sharply through the ether. He was on another road, this one paved with gold and surrounded by lush vegetation. The scent of honeysuckle and the low roar of a distant waterfall; neither hot nor cold but _perfect. _He followed it with the light, springy step of a man on his way to glory, and along the way, he met people he knew. His parents. His childhood best friend. His old boss. They smiled and he smiled back...he had no reason to do anything else. He was happy, and though he wasn't sure where he was going, he burst with excitement.

The road ended at a gate, gold and encrusted with glinting jewels. His wife and daughter waited for him, holding hands and smiling. He knew, vaguely, that he had not seen them in a long time, that he spent years missing them with keen, stomach clutching intensity, but the reunion was muted and warm. He kissed his wife and knelt down, and kissed his daughter. _Hi, honey, _he said.

_Hi, Daddy, _she said, _we missed you._

_I missed you too, _he said and brushed her blonde hair with his fingers, _anything new? _

The scene faded, and he knew nothing more until he swam up from the depths, the darkness lightening until it dazzled him. He moaned and peeled open his gummy eyelids. A ceiling splotched with brown water stains greeted him, and his brow furrowed in sleepy confusion. He tired to sit up, but burning agony exploded in his chest and he hissed through his teeth. He went to press his hand against his achy temple, but it jerked against something like a dog on a leash. He turned his head and blinked - he was cuffed to a metal rail.

He looked around the room, a long ward lined with beds. At one end, a door, at the other, a free standing metal cabinet smattered with pings and dents. White sunlight fell through windows in the opposite wall and a ceiling fan spun lazily overhead. The man sat up with a wince and shifted. His left hand was free, and he rubbed his forehead. A voice spoke, high and reedy, and he tensed. "You're awake." The man looked up to find a boy, about fifteen, sitting in a straight back kitchen chair against the far wall. He was short and pudgy, his face covered in zits and pimples. His lank, greasy black bangs hung in his eyes and he brushed them away; he wore tan slacks and a green sweater vest over a blue plaid shirt. "I'll get mother."

Before the man could ask who the hell he was, the boy got up and went out the door, leaving him alone. He stared after, trying to remember what happened, then, when it hit him, his heart stopped. He was dead. They shot him.

His hand went to his chest, and pain flared under his finger tips. He lifted his shirt, and his flesh was peppered with ugly black and purple bruises. His bewilderment grew. He distinctly remembered being shot by a half dozen people, then dying in the street. Evidently, he didn't...unless this was hell. If it _was, _he had to admit, he got off easy.

Presetly, the door opened again, and a woman with messy brown hair and thick glasses strode in, followed by the boy. She wore a grimy white lab coat over a dark blouse, loose fitting black pants, and brown hiking boots. Her lips were arranged in neutral expression and her brown eyes showed no emotion as she came over. The man watched her warily, ready to strike with his free hand if she gave him half a reason.

She bent over a nightstand next to the bed, opened the drawer, and rummaged around. "I expected you to be out for another twelve hours minimum," she said flatly. "You're full of surprises. How do you feel?"

The man's brow lowered. Full of surprises? What the fuck was _that _supposed to mean? "Where am I?" he demanded.

"Bartertown," the woman stated. "How do you feel?"

The boy stood anxiously by the foot of the next bed over, his eyes darting between the man and his mother. The man noticed a bulge under his sweater - he was carrying. "What do you want from me?"

The woman frowned and glanced over her shoulder. "Don…" she trailed off and corrected herself as though it were a major inconvenience, "_Lester_...can you please get a stethoscope from the locker?"

Nodding, the boy went to the cabinet, produced a key from his pocket, and opened it. The man watched, somehow sure the boy would come back with a goddamn anal probe instead. That he wasn't dead told him these people wanted him for something, what he could only guess. Slave labor? Medical experiments? Cannibalism? He'd come across many strange and arcane groups in his time on the road; some kept women in chains, others practiced new and bloodthirsty religions, and still others waged war on their enemies, then enslaved the losers and made them fight for their amusement in thunderdomes.

Mistaking his suspicion for curiosity, the woman said, "That's where we keep our medical supplies. We keep it locked because of the narcotics."

Now the man _was _curious. "Where do you get narcotics?" he asked. All of the drugs produced in the old world were stale by now.

"I make them myself," she said, "they're crude, but they get the job done." She closed the drawer and turned to face him full on, her arms crossing over her ample bosom. Her coat pulled slightly back, and the man spotted a gun on her hip. "That makes two of your questions I've answered. Will you answer mine, please? How do you feel?"

Sore. He felt sore, and when he inhaled, the low fire in his chest turned into a raging inferno. His head hurt and so did his ankle - he thought he twisted it again when he fell, but he couldn't remember. "Fine," he said.

The boy closed the cabinet, locked it, and came over, handing his mother a stethoscope, which she took without word. "When they brought you in, I was anticipating cracked ribs, bruised organs, and possible internal bleeding, but the X-Rays show nothing." She put the nubs in her ears and picked up the chestpiece. "You're lucky. Now lift your shirt."

The man's eyes flickered to the gun on her hip. If he could get it, he'd be able to make her uncuff him. She was, he assumed, the village doctor, and in this brave new world, doctors, like engineers, are a priceless commodity, the type tribes go to war over. With her as his hostage, he'd stand a good chance of escaping without being gunned down, since they'd be too afraid of hitting her in the crossfire.

Drawing as deep a breath as the pain would allow, he gripped his shirt in his free hand and pulled the hem up to his neck. The woman leaned over and pressed the cold stethoscope to his skin; her hair brushed his nose, and the scent of sour sweat pinched his nostrils. She listened, then moved it. "Breathe in."

He did as he was told. His teeth gritting. She listened for a moment, then, just as he was about to get of his shirt and make a grab for the gun, she stood to her full height. "Heart rate's slightly elevated," she said crisply and pulled the buds from her ears, "breathing's normal. Could you go and fetch Lynn please?"

Lester nodded and rushed away while the woman grabbed a clipboard from the foot of the man's bed and made notations with a pencil. He watched for a moment, then asked, "Why am I not dead?"

"Because," she said and replaced the clipboard, "they used non lethal force. Bean bags, to be exact. If they wanted you dead, you'd be dead." She spoke with absolute confidence, as though _they _were a crack strike team whose effectiveness was legend.

The man didn't like that. "Who are _they?_" he asked.

"That's not my purview," the woman said curtly, "you'll be debriefed when Lynn arrives." She took the stethoscope off and sat it on the nightstand.

"I'd rather be let out of these goddamn cuffs."

Before the woman could respond, the door opened and Lester entered, followed by a woman in a white uniform and black boots. She wore her chestnut colored hair in a ponytail and glowered as though the very air itself pissed her off. Her narrow cheeks were splattered with freckles, and her dark eyes simmered with annoyance. The man recognized her instantly - the leader.

His brow lowered and his hands balled into fists.

Another women entered and closed the door behind her, then stood in front of it with her legs planted far apart and her hands clasped in front of her. She wore a white uniform like Lynn's, a gun hanging from a holster at her side. She had short shoulder length blonde hair and faded blue eyes; her arms strained against the fabric of her shirt, and if she were to roll her sleeves up, the man was certain her muscles would be as toned and well-defined as his, if not more so.

Lynn came right up to the bed and stopped, her eyes locking with the man's. For a silent moment, they stared each other down like two junkyard dogs, then, without looking away, she grumbled. "You're excused, Lisa."

Not speaking, Lisa adjusted her glasses and hurried off, the blonde stepping aside to allow her passage, then taking up her former station in front of the door.

Lynn stared down at him a moment longer, unwilling to break eye contact. Doing so would show submission, and from her bearing and demeanor, the man knew she was loathe to back down. One corner of her mouth turned up in a sneer of disgust and the man matched it.

"Where were you going when we found you?" she asked.

The man's eyes went to her gun. There was a holster strap across the handle. She could easily flick it off; from his position, he could not. The blonde would probably shoot him before he had a chance to even pull the trigger anyway. He looked Lynn up and down, appraising her - she was thin but wiry and exuded strength. Her ramrod posture was that of a general used to giving orders and seeing them followed, and the hard set of her powerful jaw bespoke self-assurance. He knew her type, he'd seen it a thousand times over the past couple years in both men _and _women - she thought she could handle herself.

It's easy to overestimate your abilities and, in turn, underestimate everyone else's. Perhaps she was that way, but he was not. In his current position, cuffed to a bed, weak, and riddled with pain, he was not confident he could take her in a fight.

He'd have to play ball.

At least for now.

"Nowhere," he said.

"Where did you come from?"

Again, "Nowhere."

Lynn's face darkened and her jaw clenched. She leaned slightly forward, her hands fisting at her sides. "Who are you?" Her tone did not invite resistance.

So he gave it to her. "No one," he said with a defiant flourish.

Her eyes flashed. "Look, you son of a bitch, I'm not in the mood for games. Where were you going and where did you come from?"

His first thought was to bluff, tell her he was part of a group who'd come looking for him if he wasn't back in a couple of hours and bring hell with them, but he doubted that would persuade her to let him go. She had a purpose for him and would not be dissuaded by empty threats.

"I'm telling you, I'm alone," he said. "I wasn't going anywhere, wasn't _coming _from anywhere. Just driving."

Lynn searched his eyes for deceit but did not find it. "What were you doing out there?"

The question struck him as both odd and amusing. He chuckled sardonically, and her brow knitted angrily. "What's anyone doing out there?" he asked rhetorically. "Trying to survive."

"Raping? Killing? Stealing?" she asked, an accusatory edge in her voice.

"No, occasionally, and sometimes," he said truthfully.

"Are you dangerous?"

He considered his reply. He assumed, from her previous question, that _dangerous _was euphemism for _bad guy_ in the traditional sense. A villian. A raider. Outlaw. Pirate. In that case, no, he was not dangerous. He didn't want to rape or kill anyone, he just wanted to be left alone. Would he steal? Yes, but nothing more...unless he had to. "I am when I have to be," he said pointedly. "But not so dangerous I kidnap people off the road." He flashed a strained, mocking smile. "I'll leave that to you."

"We have our reasons," Lynn said tightly.

Oh, they did, huh? "And what are _those?" _he challenged.

By way of reply, Lynn held up her hand. "Lana."

The blonde pushed away from the door and drew her gun as she approached. The man's heartbeat quickened even though he seriously doubted they'd outright execute him. They put time and possible resources into him, and like Lisa said, if they wanted him dead, he'd be dead.

Lynn unclipped a keyring from her belt and unlocked the cuffs while Lana covered her, aiming from the hip. About twenty with a jagged, puffy pink scar running down the left side of her face like a crescent moon, her icy blue eyes were completely devoid of human emotion. You can tell a lot about someone by looking into their eyes, and what the man saw in Lana's was not simply toughness, but callousness, something else he'd seen countless times in his travels. Lynn, he sensed, would not hesitate to blow him away, but she would not take pleasure in it. For her, murdering him would be no more exciting than swatting a fly. Lana, on the other hand, would enjoy it immensely, and probably draw it out as long as she could, like a woman savoring a good meal.

The cuff fell away, and the man rubbed his chafed skin. Lynn collapsed the railing and stepped back. "Get up and put your hands behind your back," she ordered.

Between Lana and Lynn, he could do nothing but comply. He stood, and hot pain shot up his leg when he put pressure on his bad ankle. In a split second, it occurred to him to smash Lynn in the nose. He wouldn't come out of it alive, especially in his compromised condition, but he had no idea what they were planning to do to him; a shot to the head might be better. The only thing that stopped him was a flicker of curiosity deep in the blackened cinders of his soul. What _were _they planning? Chances are, he wouldn't like it, but if so...he could always find an opening: One thing he learned is that sometimes, you have to be patient...sit down and smile until you can stand up and fight back. He'd see what they had in store, and then go from there. Perhaps that was a risk, but oh well.

Risks are fun.

He turned away from Lynn and put his hands together in the small of his back. Lynn grabbed his arm, slapped the cuffs on, and closed them around his wrists. Taking a handful of his shirt, she turned him around and marched him to the door, Lana in the lead. Each step made the man dizzy with agony, but he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of showing it.

The door opened onto a long hallway, blue and white checkered floor, tile, and faded wood paneling. A bench sat along the wall, Lisa and Lester sitting together, the former going over a clipboard and the latter reading from a hardback book crinkled with age. They both looked up as the procession passed, but neither spoke. The man darted his eyes to Lisa's face in an attempt to read her expression (and infer just how bad his fate would be), but there was none - she had a hell of a poker face, he'd give her that.

At the end of the hall, Lana opened an exterior door, and blinding sunlight fell through, followed by a dry, sandpaper breeze. The man squinted and turned his head to one side to spare his eyes. "Watch your step," Lynn said sourly.

A brief set of concrete stairs. At the bottom, the man blinked, his dazzled eyes adjusting. Tents, white canvas snapping in the wind, and tumbledown shacks lined narrow, rutted dirt lanes. Beyond their slanted roofs, a tall fence cobbled together from rusted sheets of corrugated metal, detached car hoods, and street signs (STOP, YIELD) rose up from the sandy earth. A catwalk ringed its summit, protected by a three foot high parapet defenders could duck and shelter behind, and guards holding rifles, barrels pointing at the ground, walked back and forth. Like Lynn, they wore white, but unlike her, they were in full battle dress: Shoulder pads, knee pads, and face masks. People and horses moved through the streets, some of the former carrying bundles of kindling or buckets of water, and livestock - chickens, pigs, and a milk cow - ran free, shitting, scratching, and copulating in front of ramshackle pens and stables. A woman in a leather apron stood beside a smoking blacksmith's forge made of brick and stone and pounded a piece of metal against an anvil with a hammer, her toned arm muscles flexing with every strike. A girl, roughly fourteen, stood awkwardly aside, dressed in a similar apron and wearing protective goggles over her eyes. Elsewhere, a woman in a plain denim dress hung wash from a line; a woman walked alongside a horse drawing a cartful of hay, her hand loosely gripping the rein.

Typical village, nothing special; the man had been to many others like it since the Collapse, medieval societies subsisting on the bones of the old world like carrion. Some had power, others did not. Some had running water, most didn't. As Lana and Lynn lead him to whatever, he cocked his head and listened, his ears picking up the distant drone of a generator, maybe several. Generators need gasoline to run, and gas was one of the rarest and most precious commodities now. He remembered the oil derricks he saw before Lynn and her thugs ambushed him, and wondered if Bartertown was refining its own crude. If so, that would make it probably the most important township in the Mojave, maybe even the whole Southwest.

And, also, the biggest target.

The street filtered out onto a wide, dusty plain. Ahead, in the middle, was a veritable mansion constructed of adobe, its walls sloppily crafted and the windows along the first and second story uneven. The red terracotta roof looked haphazardly slapped on and the thick support columns running the length of the facade were visibly crooked. If it wasn't built by a crew of people who had no idea what the were doing, the man was the Queen of England. Tall, skinny palm trees stood on either side, their fronds rustling in the hot air, and an ornate fountain made of wrought iron sat in the courtyard bordering the building, water trickling from an angel's open mouth. A few guards, armed with AK-47s and dressed in white, patrolled the grounds. All of them, the man noted, were women. In fact, save for a toddler and a boy about eight (and Lester), he had yet to see a man.

Lynn pushed him up the stairs and into the shade of the walkway. Through the main door, the floor was earthen and oiled to keep dust from stirring. Ahead, an extravagant staircase lead to the second floor, and to the right, a wide, vaulted archway opened onto a room. Holding onto the back of his shirt, Lynn guided him in. Here, lit torches jutted from the walls and a thick red carpet covered the stone floor, leading to a raised platform where a woman sat upon an elaborate throne, gold and inlaid with jewels. Rich natural light fell through a skylight in the ceiling and bathed her in pallid hues like a prophet in a Renaissance painting. Two women stood at either arm of the chair, fanning her with palm leaves.

Up until now, the man assumed Lynn was in charge, but now he saw that he was wrong. As they drew closer, he got a better look at the woman. Tall and stately with long blonde hair that spilled over the gentle ridges of her shoulders and green, catlike eyes that stared loftily down her pert nose, she wore a loose fitting white robe with no sleeves and a deep V-neck that dipped between her breasts.. A thin, golden tiara peeked out from the crown of her head, catching and refracting the sunlight, and when they stopped, Lana on his left and Lynn on his right, she tilted her head slightly back as if to see him better. A silver chain hung around her slender throat, rings sparkled on every slender, French tipped finger, and an Egyptian style band, gold and in the shape of a spiral, wrapped around one delicate arm.

Aw. She thinks she's a queen. How cute.

Lynn shoved him to his knees, then she and Lana followed suit, bowing their heads reverently. "Your Majesty," Lynn said, "I present you with the prisoner."

The man stared at the queen's feet, clad in simple thong sandals. Her toenails were painted a faint, glossy shade of pink. He met many strange and outlandish leaders - strongmen, zealots, chefitans, shamen, even a man who dressed like Hitler and demanded his underlings call him _Der Furor_, but never royalty. He rolled his eyes up to her face - clear, creamy skin, nary a line or blemish, soft features, pink glossed lips glimmering in the sun...she was young, he thought, no older than twenty-one or two.

"Very well," she said in low, melodic voice, her tone one of calculated indifference. Lynn and Lana both got to their feet, but neither made a move to bring him to his, so he stayed where he was. His arms and wrists were starting to ache, the former from being bent back and the latter from the cuffs. He tugged at his restraints, and felt give. One of the cuffs was loose...not by much, but enough that he could yank out with a little effort.

Garments rustled as the queen sat forward, and the man lifted his head to look at her full on. Her eyes glinted with a knowing light, and the corners of her mouth tugged up in a muted smirk. "You're even more handsome than Lynn let on," she said with a little hilt. "How old are you?"

"Thirty-one," the man said truthfully.

The queen hummed. "An older man," she remarked. "I'm Queen Lola, and this Bartertown, my legacy. I hope it's to your liking."

"No," the man said, "it's not."

A shadow flickered across Lola's face, but she regained her composure. "And why is that?" she asked.

"Your people shot me, kidnapped me, and put me in handcuffs," he said, "you tell me."

Lynn rammed her elbow into his shoulder, and he winced in pain.

Nodding, Lola said, "Yes, that _is _regrettable, but we have our reasons."

"I keep hearing that," he said and rolled his neck. "What are they?"

Instead of replying, Lola turned to the woman on her right, a slight, pale, black haired girl of roughly eighteen. "Lucy, go see what's keeping Lamis. I'm growing impatient. And tell Leela that we'll be having a guest for dinner tonight."

"Yes, Your Majesty," Lucy said. She sat down the palm, went down a set of steps, and disappeared through a doorway.

Lisa, Lester, Lynn, Lana, Lola, Lucy, Lamis - the man's head spun. "Lot of L names around here," he said. There was no way it was a coincidence.

"Everyone has an L name here," Lola said, "after me." She preened proudly, and her smile sharpened. "It helps create a sense of unity. Everyone's also taken my surname. Loud."

He snorted and shook his head, earning a scolding look from the Queen. Her beauty, it seemed, was matched only by her vanity. "You'll get one too," she said and donned a mocking grin. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and made a show of thinking. "You look like…" here she met his eyes. "...a Lincoln to me."

"That's not my name," the man said.

"It is now."

The man opened his mouth to protest, but Lana elbowed his shoulder and his words came out in a breathless rush. "No talking back," she ordered. He gritted his teeth and beat down the anger welling in his chest. He was getting really sick of these cunts manhandling him, and if it kept up, he couldn't promise he wouldn't hulk out.

"That's enough, Lana," Lola said and turned to him. "You asked what our reasons for inviting you here are."

Inviting? Is that what she called it? "Yeah," he said, "I'm a _little _curious."

Lola got to her feet and came down the platform, the hem of her robe swishing around her feet. The man tracked her with his eyes as she walked around him in a circle...for dramatic effect, no doubt. "Bartertown has almost everything," she said, her voice echoing, "food, water, medicine, oil..,but there's one thing we _don't _have. One thing that's absolutely vital to my vision for the future." She was standing in front of him now. "Do you know what that is?"

He started to say no, then, in a flash, it hit him. "Men," he blurted.

Lola nodded slowly and patronizingly. "Men," she confirmed. "All of ours were killed in battle, leaving us women alone. We have two men over the age of sixty and seven boys under the age of seventeen, the oldest being Lisa's son and the youngest being his and Lamis's son, Lexington. Not a very good pool."

The man blinked in surprise. That greasy-haired, pimple-faced _kid _had a baby?

"My goal," Lola said and turned away with a flourish, "is to build a kingdom that stretches from the sea to the grasslands." She went to the stairs leading up the platform and turned back, a strange and hazy expression in her eyes. "Cities, villages, a thousand subjects all bowing down to _me._" She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out evenly, the thought of being worshipped by scores and scores of people obviously an exciting one. She looked at him and her giddy smile fell into a frown. "We can't do that with a couple little boys and a handful of old men." She came over and cupped his cheek in her hand; he pulled quickly away, a tight band of dread closing around his chest. He already knew what she wanted. "That's where _you _come in. We need babies. Lots and lots of babies. And you are going to give them to us."

The man's eyes widened in horror. His daughter's face filled his mind like a rippling reflection on the surface of a lake, and the memory of the eviscerating anguish of her death knotted deep in the pit of his stomach. "Like hell I am," he blurted.

Lola froze. "Excuse me?"

Lana and Lynn both regarded him with suspicious sidelong glances, as though they fully expected him to jump at the offer.

"I'm not doing it," he declared.

"Why not?" Lola demanded. She raised her brow and crossed her arms. She loomed over him like a stern headmistress, and her emerald eyes flashed with displeasure. To say she was the kind of woman who wasn't used to being told no was, the man reckoned, a vast understatement: She sat in a gold chair, for Christ's sake, and had people fanning her with palm leaves. She watched him expectantly, her lips a tight scar, and the man considered his reply. The reasons her proposal disturbed him were many, and once he had the time to digest it, he would likely find many more. He went back to the worst day of his life...holding his daughter as she baked with fever and convulsions tore through her skeletal frame, her big eyes clouded, tears leaking down the side of her face, and his stomach turned violently.

Lola looked at Lynn. "He was alone, right?"

"He says he was, Your Majesty," Lynn said.

The Queen turned back to him and held up one hand, palm extended, in a gesture of bafflement; he saw genuine confusion in her eyes, as though he was rejecting an offer that was simply _too good _to pass up. "You have nothing and no one, you're all alone...I'm offering you a place in my society...and the chance to father a new world….and you say no?"

His daughter lingered for two days, then died. He remembered well the gutted feeling, as though his his heart and stomach had both been ripped out by jagged claws. The pain he felt that day was the greatest he had ever known...nothing that had happened before or since could ever compare; he'd been shot, stabbed, beaten to a pulp, blown up, pushed from the top of a speeding Mac truck, and been in more car accidents than he could remember, and none of it came close to hurting a fraction as much as watching his little girl die. He'd never explicitly considered having children again, but that's like saying someone's never given serious thought to sticking their hand into a spinning buzzsaw.

Goes without saying.

"Well?" Lola pressed.

What happened in Vermont all those years ago was, in a way, his achilles heel. He could stand to be hit, starved, and worked to death in the hot sun, but he could _not _take someone using _that_ against him. Therefore, he would never say. "First of all," he said, "your plan doesn't make any sense. If I knock everyone up, all the kids are gonna be related. Give it two or three generations, and everyone's gonna be retarded."

Lola rolled her eyes. "You won't be the _only _man. There's Lester, Larry, and Lionel. And there will be others. For right now, it's you and Lester, and both of you are going to give me babies. Is that _really _so much to ask?"

"Yes," the man said instantly. "It is."

The Queen's face hardened and her eyes narrowed to slits. Leaning over, nostrils flaring, she put her hands indignantly on her hips. "Fine, then I _won't _ask. You're going to put a baby into me, a baby into Lynn, a baby into Lana, and Lucy, and Lora, and Lydia, and Lisa, another baby into me, one into Luna and Luan and Leni, one into Leah, one into Leanne, yet another into me, one…" she trailed off and looked at Lynn. Her cheeks burned pink and her tiny breasts rose and fell with the sway of her husky breathing. From the dreamy, faraway look in her eyes and the fact that she mentally gave herself three of his children, the man inferred that she liked the concept of being pregnant. Maybe a little _too _much. "How old is Lily?"

"Twelve," Lynn responded.

"That's old enough," she said and turned to him, an obscene leer on her lips. "You'll put a baby into her too," she added raggedly, "and I'm gonna watch."

The man drew back in revulsion. A twelve year old girl? Fuck _that_. "Like hell I will," he said. "Find someone else to populate your little ego kingdom."

Lola bared her teeth like an ill-tempered dog and sucked a sharp, hissing breath; it was crazy, but the man couldn't help think she was trying to suck him through the gap between her teeth and eat him whole for disobeying her. "Look, Lincoln," she started.

"That's not my name."

"...I was going to be fair and let you do this the fun way...I don't know about everyone else here, but _I _could certainly use a little intimacy...yet if I have to have Lisa rip your balls open and take your sperm by force, I will." The last bit came out as a grated threat. She crossed her arms again and shot her brows up. _Understand? _

Yeah, he did. Looking her dead in the eyes, he said, "Go ahead. That's the only way you're getting it, bitch."

Scarlet rage bust across Lola's face and her eyes widened with insane fury. Her hands closed into fists and a terrible shudder when through her; for a second, the man thought she was going to strangle him, but she proved to be less impulsive than he thought. "Take him away," she said tightly and pointed to the exit.

Lynn grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Lola glared at him, her green eyes cold. "You're going to fuck us," she said, "or you're going to be our slave. The choice is yours." She looked at Lynn. "Make him clean the stables."

Lynn nodded, and spun him around; his ankle howled and he nearly lost his balance. As she and Lana lead him out, Lola's voice resounded through the throne room like a godly proclamation. "You'll change your mind. I _always _get what I want."

Not fucking likely.

Outside, a dry blast of heat washed over him, and the crisp tang of woodsmoke drifted to his nose. Lynn pushed him down the stairs and across the courtyard, and he darted his gaze to the wall on his right. Twenty feet high at a glance - not counting the parapet on top - it looked sturdy enough, but not impenetrable. It could keep out coyotes and raiders, but not a sustained assault...or a man intent on scaling it. Rickety wooden ladders spaced every fifteen feet gave access to the catwalk. He counted three guards on this section, and after a little quick mental math, surmised that the total number of guards on patrol at any given time (if they kept a 24 hour rotating shift, which they must) was no greater than twenty. He hadn't seen enough of the village to even guess at how long the wall stretched, but he could already tell that not every square inch was covered at all times. A determined man could slip through and get away easy.

Or die trying.

"You know, you're really stupid," Lynn said into his ear. They were moving toward a cluster of shacks with sheet metal roofs and graffito splattered walls. Thin white smoke hung in the air, and the jaunty sound of an accordion flowed from parts unknown.

Lana hummed her agreement, her grip on his shirt tightening. "Real dumbass."

"Get with the program," Lynn added. "I don't like it either, but she's right. We need people, and there's only one way to get them."

The man couldn't help himself. "Taking them off the road like you did me?"

"Don't be a smartass," she said. "You really wanna be tied up and bred like an animal?"

They were almost at the end of the courtyard. A dirty street wound between shacks, sheds, tents, and other outbuildings whose purpose the man could only guess at. "No," he said but didn't elaborate. To himself: _Which is why I'm busting out. _

"Then do what Lola wants," Lynn said in a tone that settled the matter. "It's not that bad here."

Uh-huh. "Maybe not, I dunno," the man said, "what I've seen so far hasn't impressed me."

Lynn opened her mouth, but a sharp cry cut her off. "THEY'RE BACK!" The man looked to the wall; a guard stood with her back to parapet and her hand cupping her mouth. "EVERYONE AT YOUR STATION!"

In an instant, the street with filled with a confused swarm of women running toward the fence, many of them carrying rifles . Lynn shoved the man away and ran down the street, working against the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream. Lana hesitated, her face drawn, then, without warning, flung the man to the ground. His breath jolted from his lungs and his ankle cried out in agony "Stay here," she ordered, then ran off in the same direction as Lynn.

Feet hurried past - boots, sandals, rotting tennis shoes - and excited shouting filled the day. The man sat up and shook his head; he was getting really fucking sick of being pushed around. Ahead, a woman, panic write across her face, grabbed a little girl, pulled her into a shack, and slammed the door. Down the street, Lynn and Lana snatched rifles from a brick shed and frantically passed them out to a line of women, who then ran toward the fence. Three, four dozen knelt on the catwalk, their guns braced against the parapet and pointing out into the desert. The man's brow knitted in curiosity. He flexed his wrists against the cuffs, gritted his teeth, then, squeezing his eyes closed against a rush of tears, he yanked one hand out. They dangled from the other like a macabre bracelet. Shit, that hurt. He rubbed the chafed flesh and looked up at the catwalk - a hushed pall lay over the defenders, their bodies tense with anticipation.

The man had seen enough raids in his time to know what was happening, and his curiosity was piqued. Heedless to the women still streaming to the front, he got to his feet, went to one of the ladders, and climbed it; it wobbled and groaned under his weight. The platform comprised a narrow slab of reinforced wooden planks roughly ten feet across. He went to an unguarded section, dropped to his knees, and lifted his head over the parapet.

What he saw surprised him.

A fleet of vehicles, many of them rebuilt monstrities stitched together from the parts of other cars like an army of mechanical Frankensteins, approached from the west as an armada at sail, a massive cloud of smoke rising in their wake. He counted two ranks, three, each one an eighth of a mile across; chrome grills twinkled suggestively in the sunlight; spikes jutted from hub caps; machine guns manned by men in goggles peeked out over the roofs of Jeeps and drab brown Humvees; hot rods with hood mounted engines and running boards; dune buggies replete with roll bars and mounted flamethrowers; a Camaro fitted with a massive cow guard more befitting a freight train; motorcycles, dirt bikes, a truck on wheels so big you'd need a grappling hook just to get in the cab; and in the front row, centered perfectly, a flat bed pick up bearing a disgustingly buff black man sitting in a throne not unlike Lola's. He wore tight black trunks that barely covered his crotch, studded leather straps across his rippling chest, and spiked bracelets around his wrists. His arms and legs bulged, and fat veins stood out on the sides of his neck. A white hockey mask dotted with air holes hid his face, and the wind blew through his kinky black hair. A woman knelt in front of him, facing away; she was dirty, clad in rags, and visibly afraid, a collar around her throat and the choker clutched in the black man's hand.

The column kept coming - a hundred feet, now fifty - and the man's heartbeat sped up. They were going to crash through the walls and sweep through Bartertown like locust. On the bright side, he could get away in the chaos.

Someone dropped down next to him and sat the stock of an M-16 on the parapet. "How the fuck did _you _get out?" Lynn asked. She stared down a scope, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a resolute sneer. A few strands of hair had worked free of her ponytail and fluttered in the corrosive breeze.

"I'm full of surprises," he said, echoing what Lisa told him earlier.

"Lucky you're not full of lead," she growled.

The man snorted. "I'm the least of your problems right now."

The vanguard was closing in fast, bearing down on Bartertown like a tidal wave, the roar of a thousand engines filling the air like Judgement Day. Twenty feet from the fence, it came to a rolling stop, and the vehicles behind it stopped as well. Dust swept over the army like brimstone. Lynn cocked her rifle and aimed; the man followed her line of sight to the black man. If she was as smart as he thought she was, her bead was directly on his torso, since it presented a larger target. Or maybe she was a showoff to whom the thrill of a headshot was all-important. She was evidently in charge of the security force or whatever Bartertown called it, so he assumed she must know her shit. Then again, if she was appointed by Lola, who knew? That girl's head was so far up her own ass you'd need a crowbar to get it out.

For a moment, nothing happened, then the passenger door of a dented '78 Monte Carlo with barbed wire threaded through its grill and skulls on pikes swung open. A slight man in a desert tan pants and an olive army style coat stepped out, the wind whipping his reddish hair. Other people followed, jumping off of bikes and climbing out of cars in grim silence. The man spotted scars, leather jackets, eye patches, assless leather chaps, shaved heads, swastika armbands, a red communist hammer and sickle flag flapping over a 4X4, rifles, shotguns, crossbows, a bazooka on the shoulder of a shirtless man with an elaborate tribal tattoo across his chest, sneers, snarls, flat, emotionless eyes, leering grins. They were dressed in an assortment of ways: Goggles, leather, denim, helmets with POLICE on the front, tank tops, camouflage, Stetsons, cowboy boots, plaid, shorts, pants, a pandemonium of clashing colors and styles, all dirty and, in some cases, rotting from their bodies.

The man knew roughnecks when he saw them, and the army at the gate was as rough as they came, their minds filled with rape, pillaging, and murder.

The red head walked forward and stopped at the front end of the Monte Carlo. Thick, uneasy silence lay over the gathering like a funeral shroud, the only sound the tick of cooling engines and the rustle of Bartertown's defenders shifting nervously in place. Lynn squinted down the sight and regulated her breathing. The man looked from her to the invaders and back again. "I figured this place was popular," he commented.

She didn't reply.

Throwing his shoulders proudly back, the redhead took a deep breath. "Bartertown!" he cried, his voice rolling over the hanpan like thunder, "I present your future King! The Warrior of the Wastelands! The Genius of the Mojave! The God of a good time, Sir. Ginormous!" He swept his arm back and Sir. Ginormous picked up a CB handset attached to speakers flanking his chair.

"Greetings, Bartertown," he said, his amplified voice low, shaky, and unsteady, giving the impression of advanced age or illness, "I bring you well wishes and tidings of good cheer. So, too, do my people."

The man's eyes flicked from one raider to another, and to a man, their faces were stony, uninviting. If they had any good cheer in them to begin with, it was burned away long ago like impurities in boiled water. As grizzled as they were, they were, like him, working stiffs once - fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers leading normal lives. They lived, they loved, and they complained about taxes and traffic on the freeway. Now, years after the fall of man, they were hardened and cold - bloodthirsty and ravenous, even. The man did not like to see doctors, lawyers, grocery baggers, and teenagers when he looked at the enemy, because that made it harder to kill them.

They, he assumed, would not hesitate to kill _him. _That's how people like them operated. They wanted what they did and murdered anyone who got in their way. He stole and fought, but he never hurt someone who didn't have it coming, and he never took from someone who needed it more than he did. He was a lot of things, but he rested easy at night knowing he was not a barbarian.

"Bullshit," Lynn muttered to herself as if in answer to his reason, then pressed the butt of the gun tighter into the crook of her shoulder.

"We are here not for a social call, however, but, rather, on business," Siir Ginormous continued. "A matter of great import of which you, too, are well aware. Less than ten years ago, the world we know passed away in a series of unfortunate events. Our cities burned, our institutions collapsed, and every one of us lost someone dear to our hearts."

The man's daughter flitted across the man's mind.

"Millions died in the following years and we, the few, were left to pick up the pieces. In seven years, we've gone from Americans, proud and noble, to little more than dogs fighting over scraps. We have within us the potential to remake the world...nay, to create a _better _world...if only we put aside our differences, accept each other, and work _together_." He balled his free hand into a fist for emphasis. Something moved in the corner of the man's eye, and he turned to see Lola standing tall against the parapet, her arms crossed over her tiny breasts and the wind whipping her hair. Disdain was written across her arrogant features and her lips puckered sourly.

Sir. Ginormous ceased speaking for a moment, as if to let his words sink in. He probably stayed up all night working on them. They were pretty, yes, but just by looking at him and his men, the man could tell they were empty.

A hot wind blew, and the communist flag's resultant snap was loud in the preternatural silence. "Lola...dear, sweet Lola, apple of my eye...we're not so different, your people and mine. We all want the same things: Peace, prosarity, and a world where all of this…" he extended his arm to indicate his men, "is a thing of the past. I am tired of war, I am tired of death, I am tired of the violence. I know, in my heart, that you are too. Look around you, what do you see? Suffering. Misery. But no more. It rests with _us_ to build a new society, a new order, to banish fear from the shadows and see a higher road.

"Your people, like mine, lack a vital component to that vision. You have too few men" - he gestured to the fence, then to his army, "and we have too few women. A civilization takes both sexes to prosper - beyond reproduction, beyond sex, we, men and women, were made to complete each other. Your traits and abilities compliment ours, and ours yours. Neither is better than the other, both are different in their own special ways. Without you, our bread will not rise, and without us, your cake will not bind."

Lynn's face crinkled in disgust as she, presumably, imagined being mated by one of the dirty, scar studded pirates at the gate.

The man couldn't help a sarcastic chuckle. "There, you got them. You can let me go now."

"No," Lynn said. "They're monsters and they've been trying to force themselves on us for months. Not happening."

The man squinted at Sir. Ginormous. "You mean he wants to make you have babies against your will?" he asked sardonically. "What an asshole."

"Shut the fuck up," Lynn spat. From the tremble in her voice, she knew there was no difference between what Sir. Ginormous was doing...and what her own people were doing.

Sir. Ginormous was speaking again. "...overture possible. I gave your shipments armed escort, I fairly traded for your gasoline instead of taking it from you, I drove out the raiders who killed your men -"

Down the line, someone screamed. The man turned; a woman with flowing red hair, her face mask of loathing, stood at the parapet. "_YOU SENT THEM!" _she charged. "_THEY KILLED MY HUSBAND AND YOU SENT THEM! YOU BASTARD!" _She lifted her carbine as if to fire, and another woman jumped up and wrapped her arms around her from behind, wrestling her to the catwalk. "_YOU MURDERING BASTARD!" _

Shaking his head sadly, Sir. Ginormous waved her off like an annoying gnat. "That's of no matter," he said into the handset "The point is, I have employed patience and understand over the course of many months. The way forward is clear to me. We must merge our peoples. Then, and only then, can we build something more. Lola, with you as my queen, we can spread our kingdom from the Pacific to the Rockies and even beyond. Apart, we will remain as we are. Together, we will establish a proud nation of millions. Will you join me in my quest for stability? Will you rule beside me as my wife...and the mother of my children?"

The man's eyes went to Lola - he knew her well enough already to anticipate her response. "No," she called. "Leave us alone."

Lynn's finger twitched on the trigger, and the man licked his lips. If she pulled it, all hell would break loose; the raiders would smash through the fence and flood Bartertown like the hungry tide.

Presenting the perfect opportunity to escape.

"You leave me no other choice," Sir. Ginormous replied. "You and your group of stuck-up wenches have stood in the way of progress long enough. I will allow it no more. I will give you two days to reconsider. If at the end of that two days you persist in your obstruction, we will have no choice but to knock down your gate, burn your homes, rape and murder your children, and enslave every single one of you."

The man's jaw dropped. _Rape and murder your children. _

A vision of his daughter came to him - she was naked, dirty, shrieking in terror as Sir. Ginormous shoved her face into the dirt and thrusted. A gaseous ball of hot lead formed in the pit of his stomach, and his eyes glinted with a mad and frightening light. His hand went to his hip, but the holster was empty. He looked at Lynn - she watched Sir. Ginormous through her rifle scope, her expression inscrutable. "Shoot him," he hissed.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Shoot him in his head."

"I-I can't," she wavered, "I don't have a shot."

The man's brow furrowed. "Seriously? He's right there. I could spit on him from here." He gestured at the burly black man.

"I don't have a shot," Lynn repeated tightly, each one drawing out. She was lying, there was nothing between her and Ginormous but open space. He was twenty feet away, maybe thirty; he wasn't exaggerating when he said he could spit on him, he could. Hell, he could peg him with a balled up piece of paper if he had one.

"Alright, give _me _the gun," he said and held out his hand. 'I'll have a shot."

Lynn looked away from the scope and regarded him with a mixture of shock and disdain. "What? No! If you shoot him, we're gonna have a war on our hands."

The man couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You already have a fucking war on your hands," he said, "I don't know what pussy ville you come from, but in _my _neck of the woods, saying you're going to rape someone's child is fighting words, and if you have half a fucking spine, you kill the asshole who said it."

Lynn's face hardened and her eyes narrowed slightly. "Maybe you're blind and stupid, but they have more people than us. They could come in here and kill us like _that_."

"They're going to!" the man cried. "Unless you bow down and let him and his thugs in, he's gonna blow through here and kill everyone. Don't you have ears? Don't you have a _brain _in that empty head of yours?"

Lynn's eyes blazed and she issued a low growl in the back of her throat. A deep blush colored her cheeks and her grip on the rifle tightened. '"We can find a way to avoid that, dumb shit, but not if we go off half-cocked. Maybe that's how you do things in faggot town, but that's _not _how we do it here."

The man was starting to get mad; his skin flushed hotly and his fingers curled against the heel of his palm. "Alright, moron," he spat, "maybe you been behind these cushy little walls too long and forgot what it's like in the real world. He wants two things. You vaginas and your gasoline. Look." He pointed to the woman at Sir. Ginormous's feet. She sat on her knees, head hung in dejection, her master periodically pulling on the leash as he spoke into the handset, a boy slowly and relishingly pulling the wings from a fly. Lynn followed his finger, then looked away as though the sight were too pitiful to endure. "That's gonna be _you _in two days."

Lynn sucked a sharp breath through her teeth. "We have children to think about," she said with strained patience, "if we go to war with them -"

"So you wanna roll over and take it up your ass?" the man charged. He was breathing heavy now, his hands shaking with rage as he imagined Ginormous doing all of the things he vowed - raping children...children who looked impossibly like his daughter. "Real nice. I thought you had a backbone, but I was wrong. Then again, I thought you ran this place, but turns out you're a yes man to a teenage girl in a Dollar Store crown."

Moving so quick her arm was a white blur, Lynn grabbed him by the front of his shirt and drew his face to hers. "Listen, cocksucker, this is _my _home and these are _my _people. Maybe you don't give a shit what happens to them, but _I _do, and blowing that son of a bitch away will get everyone here killed _right now. _So shut your faggot mouth and fuck off."

The man's eyes narrowed. He started to reply, but snapped his mouth when Sir. Ginormous cleared his throat. The black man glared at them, and the man's heart sank. He must not have heard what they were saying, for he turned back to Lola. "As I was saying before I was so _rudely _interrupted…"

"Good going," Lynn said and shoved the man away, "You almost got us in trouble."

The man couldn't help a sardonic titter. "You're already in trouble."

"Fuck you," Lynn growled. He detected a hint of fear in her voice; she knew damn well straits were dire. What could she do, though? What could _he _do? She was right, Ginormous's army outnumbered the people of Bartertown by a lot; openly fighting them here and now would lead to a swift and spectacular defeat.

"...failure to accept my ultimatum will result in your undoing," Sir. Ginormous was saying. "Spare your people further misery, Lola. Look deep within that vain, shallow, egotistical thing you call a heart, and step with me into the future. You know I'm right, and so do your people." He stood from his throne, dropped the leash, and waved his free hand in a dramatic fashion. "All of you behind those walls...don't let your leader's hubris dig your graves. We might look rough…" he turned and scanned his men, then nodded his approval, "but we are not monsters. You will find, if you join us, that we love and protect our own. That will include you...if you know what's good for you." The last part came out as a grumbling threat that reminded the man of a revving chainsaw. "We'll be back in two days. You can be our wives…" he picked up the leash...then pulled it tight; the woman's eyes bugged out of their sockets and her hands went to her throat, "or you can be our dogs. The choice is yours."

He signaled his people that it was time to go, and retook his throne. Everyone got back into their cars and onto their bikes and gunned them engines seemingly at once. The man leaned over the parapet, his hands splaying on the stone, and watched the army depart in a shroud of dust, the harsh desert sun glinting on their grills, fenders, and machine guns. The others did likewise, tense and grim-faced. A look of worry rippled across Lola's features, and she swallowed hard. The man noted a few of the women shooting her uncertain sidelong glances - maybe they were worried about their queen, or maybe they were considering Sir. Girnomous's words. _Don't let your leader's hubris dig your graves. _A gust of wind flipped Lola's golden hair, and she brushed it away from her face; her fingers trembled and for the first time, the man really looked at her. Her skin was the color of sour milk and her eyes seething with anxiety.

In other words, she looked terrified, and the man could not suppress a twinge of sympathy.

Taking a deep breath, she turned away from the parapet, her gaze downcast and her teeth nervously chewing her bottom lip. The women around her looked up at her, expecting, perhaps, a rousing speech or a few words of assurance. Instead, she went over to one of the ladders and scurried down, the wind fluttering her hair and her dress. The man twisted around and watched a team of guards in white hustle her back to the palace like a presidential detail, their jackboots kicking up puffs of dust. Next to him, Lynn stared after Lola with what he took to be a bitter mix of concern and loathing. _There she goes, _her expression said, _running off and leaving _me _to do the dirty work._

Sighing frustratedly, Lynn got to her feet and rested the M-16 against her shoulder. "Alright," she called, her voice firm and authoritative, "everyone back to what you were doing. If you were not assigned a firearm this morning, return it to the armory immediately." She whipped her head to a woman with an overbite and rusty brown hair - she wore tan slacks and an olive drab coat over a blue top. "Luan, take Lincoln to the stables. He has work to do."

The man's brow knitted. "That's not my name," he said lowly.

"Yeah? Lynn isn't mine, do you hear _me _crying?"

The man shook his head, then cried out when Lynn brought the stock of her rifle down hard on his shoulder. He crumpled over and hissed through clenched teeth. Before he could throw her over the wall, she rolled him onto his stomach, jammed her knee between his shoulders, and cuffed his free hand, clicking it so tight pain shot up his arm. "Lori, go with her. Both of you keep your guns and if he gives you any problems, kneecap his ass." She rolled him back over with her foot and stared down at him, her eyes narrowed. The man stared back, and something passed between them.

Mutual respect, he thought.

And mutual hatred.

"Get up," she said and took a step back.

The man lay there. It was his only means of dissent.

She waited a moment, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and dragged him to his feet, her face filling the world. "Don't fuck with me," she said. There was a beseeching undercurrent in her voice that, he imagined, she did not intend. It was less of a threat and more of a plea. _I'm dealing with a lot right now, cut me some slack. _

The last thing the bitch deserved was slack, but the man found himself pitying her...and giving it to her anyway.

She turned him around and shoved him toward Luan and another woman, this one tall and thin with shoulder blonde hair; pearls dangled from her ears and swayed when she and Luan caught him. "I mean it," Lynn said, "blast him in the leg if he gives you shit."

With that, she climbed down the ladder and went after Lola.

"Alright, Lincoln," Luan said, "come on."

The man grated. That was not his name and he was getting really fucking sick of being called it.

Until he got away, however, he guessed he would have to accept it.

Offering no resistance, Lincoln allowed them to take him away.


	4. One Way or Another

**Guest: Kind of. I've never seen **_**Fury Road, **_**but I knew from trailers and things I'd heard that it involved women in a major capacity, so I always assumed breeding / sex slavery was a theme. That aspect is a nod to **_**Fury Road**_**, while the overall concept - drifter and a post-apocalyptic society of women - comes from an idea I had about ten years ago but never really developed.**

**THXXX11138****: No, Lola and Lana aren't twins in this, and Lamis is not related to Luna. Aside from Lisa and Lester, none of the named characters are related, if I recall. I imagine the downfall took place between now and some point a few years into the future. Everyone's ages are obviously different, of course.**

**STR2D3PO: I never gave him one.**

* * *

Lincoln Loud, as the man was now known (she said Loud was her surname, right?) leaned heavily on the shovel and took a deep, panting breath. His body, stripped to the waist, glistened with sweat and back twinged with pain. His ankle, recently a throbbing mass of agony, was completely numb, and dragged uselessly behind him when he walked.

He was standing in the middle of a pen in a horse stable on the far side of Bartertown. Straw covered the plank floor and dust motes swirled in shafts of golden sunlight streaming through the single window. Splintered support beams held up the slipshod tin roof, their rough hewn wood coated in desert grit, and a hayloft above played host to nestling shadows. Several times while he worked, he heard something moving around up there. Bats, probably, but for some strange reason, his usually pragmatic mind turned it into a crouching monster...all fur, teeth, and black spider eyes...waiting to swoop down and tear out his throat. He caught himself several times tossing it nervous glances, and chastised himself severely. There were plenty of monsters in this world without creating new ones.

In here, the air was twenty degrees hotter than it was outside, and thick with the stench of shit. He swiped the back of one gloved hand across his forehead and blinked as errant beads stung his eyes. A rickety wooden cart sat at the entrance of the stall, dried manure piled ten feet high and stuck with strands of hay. Luan and Lori stood on either side of the big exterior door, their rifles pointed at the ground. They both looked bored; they chatted here and there, but remained mostly stoic, their eyes firmly on him and their fingers caressing the trigger guards. Lincoln stole surreptitious looks at them as he shoveled the dung into the cart - they were tense and edgy, and every time a horse-drawn cart clunked by in the street, they jumped a little. Twice, he noticed both staring at his naked chest with unchaste eyes; Lori biting her bottom lip, Luan blushing furiously, one winded even though she hadn't exerted herself and the other squirming slightly, her thighs rubbing clandestinely together as if to ease the mounting pressure in her loins...

He should be flattered...would be under other circumstances...but he was not. In fact, for some reason he could not name, their lust deeply unsettled him. On the up side, in their overwrought state - from both his bare flesh and Sir. Girnormous's promise to enslave them - they'd be easy to trick and overpower.

If only his goddamn foot wasn't dead fucking weight. The bullet wound in his shoulder was also starting to ache, and every time he tried to raise his arm over his head, seering red agony spread through his torso. It wasn't bad when he started, but now just lifting the shovel made his skull throb with suffering. If he tried anything, he'd wind up face down in the dirt again, and he'd done that enough today to last a fucking lifetime. He didn't have to make an attempt, though, because aside from that Sir. Ginormous shit, he had all the time in the world. Lola wanted him to breed her and her asshole subjects, and the fact that she sent him to clean a stable instead of having Lisa slice his nuts open told him she wanted him to do it _the fun way_. This little task here was equivalent to being packed off to bed without supper, a temporary punishment and not a permanent destiny. If he was right, she'd heap him with a bunch of bullshit work hoping that while he did it, he'd think and see the error of his ways. _Ya know, compared to licking the chicken coop floors, fucking a baby into all of Bartertown sure sounds swell. _

She wasn't counting on one thing, though.

Him absolutely not fucking wanting to.

She also wasn't counting on Sir. Ginormous's little visit that morning. Pursing his lips, Lincoln thought back to the black man's promise to rape and murder the children of Bartertown...like an animal eating his predecessor's young. His chest knotted with righteous indignation. What kind of fucking scumbag could say that? Even if it was a bluff (and that was a pretty big _if_), how could someone even bring themselves to _say _that?

Lola might not have been counting on his refusal to jump her and everyone else's bones, but he was not counting on something either.

Caring.

He could walk out the gate right this second and leave all the women here to Ginormous. Fuck them, they were adults.. He could _not, _he was perturbed to discover, abandoned children to the same fate. He didn't know how many kids Bartertown had, but he'd seen three himself, and there were apparently more. The prospect of them being harmed made Lincoln literally sick to his stomach.

And every one of them was his daughter...sick with fever, shaking in the throes of seizures, and begging for fairy princess fruit snacks, a small comfort in her time of dying.

Sudden tears welled in his eyes, and Lincoln blinked them back, ducking his head so that neither of his captors would see. You never show weakness to your enemy, never; you never show them how greatly they're getting to you. Right now, his ankle was coming back to life, pulsing hotly, and his shoulder hurt so bad he could barely keep a grimace from his face, but he wouldn't let them see.

Bartertown was between a rock and a hard place right now. Sir. Ginormous and his men would probably sack the place regardless of Lola's final decision - the rape and murder of its children, and the enslavement of its women, was all but inevitable.

From the look of terror on her face earlier, Lola would probably cave. She was young, dumb, and vain - she'd buy his bullshit about _sparing _her people, and unwittingly condemn them instead.

"You done?"

Lincoln looked up; Lori and Luan both watched him, the lust gone, replaced by the cool efficiency of correctional officers overseeing an inmate scrubbing a toilet. He glanced around and glimpsed a horse patty peeking up from under a drift of hay. Pain wracked his body and weariness pressed down upon him like a heavy hand. Hopefully they didn't see it. "Yeah," he said.

Lori started to speak again, but cut off and stood up straight when Lynn strode in, her combat boots crunching straw under its treads and her ponytail swishing determinedly back and forth. A pistol in a holster slapped against her outer thigh, and Lincoln's eyes were drawn to it.

Luan assumed a posture similar to Lori's, and Lincoln expected them to snap off crisp salutes in deferential greeting, but they did not. Lynn put her hands on her hips, shot a perfunctory glance around the stall, and nodded to Lori. She and Luan wasted no time in scrambling away; if they had tails, they'd be tucked between their legs.

Alone, Lynn fixed him with a glower, and he gave her a loose, half-hearted salute. "Seig heil."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you finished?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said and nodded to the cart. "Done."

Lynn's gaze flicked to the sole remaining turd. "No you're not," she pointed out. Lincoln hung his head. How in the hell did she see it from her vantage point?

"Your eyes work," he said, and made no move to go and get it. His ankle beat like the desert sun and his neck muscles twanged. If he tried to take a step, he'd probably fall flat on his face.

Lynn jutted her chin smugly out. "Yeah, they do. Now pick it up."

Sighing, Lincoln looked at it. Four feet away, if that; it might as well have been a thousand. He licked his parched lips and took a deep breath through his nose. Lynn's brow arched expectantly and one boot tapped impatiently on the floor, producing a steady knocking sound like the tick a celestial clock counting down to doomsday. Of all the people in this crummy town, he wanted to look weak in front of _her _least. The denizens of Bartertown were all, more or less, his enemy, but Lynn was the manifestation - the face and projection

He gripped the handle and used the shovel as a cane, the spade biting into the floor. Pain crept up his leg and he bared his teeth. He stopped, stared down at the patty, and wondered how the hell was was going to do this. Taking a step back, he picked the shovel up and nearly fell. Damn it. Holding tight, he bent, his skull bursting and gray twinging the corners of his vision, and reached out, his fingertips brushing the surface. Hissing through his teeth, he stooped down even farther, his back on fire, and closed his hand around it. He stood and hobbled over to the cart - his face was pale, strained, and quivering. Lynn's brow softened, but she did not speak.

Dropping the patty onto the pile, Lincoln turned, and his ankle gave out; he sat hard on the edge of the cart and let out a shameful but involuntary gasp. He clutched the shovel handle and hung his head, his breathing quick, painful. He was aware of Lynn watching him, and burning humiliation spread across the back of his neck. "These damn shoes," he said with a trace of self-deprecation. The point wasn't to fool her but rather to show that he was in high spirits despite her and her cunt queen. He stole a sidelong glance at her, and the faint, nearly imperceptible pity in her eyes made his ignominy even worse.

"Yeah," she said flatly, "shoes. Why are you doing this?"

The change is topic was so fast it gave him whiplash. He lifted one hand in a stricken gesture and swept it back and forth. "Because Your Highness told me to," he said in a slow, patronizing tone.

Lynn exhaled sharply through her nose. "No, dumbass," she said, "_this_. You're making things harder on yourself than they have to be."

Oh. _That. _Why did she even care? "I'm not the main issue right now," he said and turned to look up at her. "Maybe you forgot already, but Hercules and his merry band of assholes are gonna be back in two days -"

"I know," Lynn snapped, "don't worry about it. That's _my _job."

Lincoln's jaw clenched. "I _am _gonna worry," he said. "Your people shot me, kidnapped me, tried to rape me, and used me as a goddamn slave...but I still don't like the way he was talking."

Her eyes, hitherto flashing, dimmed and she seemed to deflate a little. She looked away and cast her gaze to the floor. "I noticed," she admitted heavily. "I didn't like it either, okay? You saw him one time, we've been dealing with him for almost a year. We know damn well what we're up against."

"How are you going to stop it?" Lincoln pushed. "You said yourself he has more people than you and that in a battle, he'd kick your ass. Sounds to me like you're stalling. You and that jackass Lola don't have a fucking clue. You're gonna roll over and pray he was telling the truth about loving and protecting you, then, when it's too late, you're gonna see he wasn't. He's gonna goosestep in here, kill your kids, burn your shit to the ground, then put you and all your little friends in dog collars."

Lynn's face rippled with something akin to alarm and she shook her head vehemently. "That's not gonna happen. Okay? We're working on it."

He snorted. "How long does it take to stitch a piece of white fabric to a stick?" He mimed waving a flag, and Lynn's lips pursed angrily. He was getting to her. Good. One, she needed to see the stark reality of what she and her people were facing - she was good at what she did, he saw, but probably thought a little too highly of herself. There's nothing more dangerous than blind overconfidence. Two. She fucking had it coming. She shot him, hit him, whacked him with a rifle butt, and treated him like a goddamn POW in a Vietcong prison camp. She deserved worse...she deserved him wedging a crowbar into the cracks across her facade and pulling until she came apart...but looking into her eyes, hard like ice, but thin, hiding deep, primal fear, he didn't have the heart to go on.

"Just drop it," she sighed.

Lincoln nodded. "Fine."

"Why are you fighting this so hard?" she asked, quickly changing the subject.

"Why are you fighting _them _so hard?" he asked acerbically.

She hesitated. "We're not them," she said defensively. "Look, you don't have shit out there, right?"

"Not a thing," he confirmed.

"Then stay here. We have food, a doctor, power, and look at you. You're dirty and scarred and...all fucked up." Her nose crinkled as she delivered the last three words, and Lincoln grated. "All you gotta do is father a few kids, is that so much to ask?"

Lincoln regarded her contemptuously. "Yeah," he said, "it is. I don't wanna do it. I get it, your queen's an egomaniac who wants a kingdom of millions worshiping her, that's fine, I really don't give a shit. Just leave _me _out of it."

"You're a fucking retard," Lynn said, "what, you like screwing off in the desert? By yourself? Being a fucking sandperson?"

"Yeah," Lincoln replied sourly, "I do."

Lynn snorted humorlessly. "I bet you're gay. That's why you don't wanna do it."

"Yeah," Lincoln said, his voice dripping sarcasm, "you got me. I'm queer as a two dollar bill. You can let me go now."

Instead, Lynn rolled her eyes. "Whatever. I'm trying to help _you _out. Lola gets what she wants, and she's gonna get you popping out kids eventually. Might as well suck it up and save yourself some grief."

He laughed heartily. Grief. "What do you think I'm doing?" he asked, his tone grave. He didn't mean to say it aloud, but he did, and after the words were out, he turned away from Lynn and rubbed his aching knees. "I don't want kids," he added in the most disgusted voice he could muster, hoping against hope it concealed the pain and fear in his heart.

"It's not like you're gonna raise all of them," Lynn said matter-of-factly. "We don't need you for _that." _

An inexplicable pang of dread went through his stomach. "So I'm good enough to make a child but not good enough to have a relationship with it, huh?" he asked, bitterness he could not contain edging into his voice. "Nice. Real fucking nice. You make this place sound better and better every time you open your mouth."

Lynn's brow knitted and she threw up her hand. "You just said you didn't even _want _kids, now you're talking about having a relationship with them. Are you really this fucking stupid? If you wanna be a father, fine, okay? If not, then you don't have to worry about it. We're not exactly picky. If you wanna just blow your nut and not have to deal with it later on, fine, whatever. I'm telling you we're...we'll compromise." Her voice faltered, as though compromise went against everything she believed in...which it probably did.

She was trying, in her own way, to be as reasonable as possible, a complete 180 from her attitude earlier in the day. The sudden switch in tactics struck him as contrived and insincere, yet he still couldn't make himself tear into her...even if she _did _have it coming. "I'm not interested in compromise," he said, a little of the fight draining from him. "I don't want it, okay? I have my reasons." That was as close to the truth as he would allow himself to come.

Lynn sighed in acquiescence. "Whatever. It's up to you. Lola wants you at the palace. Come on." She reached into a pouch on her belt and produced a pair of handcuffs. Lincoln made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat and she stopped. "What?"

"You don't need those," he said. "I'm not gonna run."

He meant it...he wasn't going to try and escape. He was in no shape to make a serious effort at getting away, and even though things looked bad in multiple ways, they didn't look so bad that death was a better option.

Lynn pursed her lips thoughtfully, and Lincoln fully expected her to cuff him anyway as a show of power. When she returned them to their holder, then, he was mildly surprised. She unclipped the strap across the butt of her pistol and drew it. Desert Eagle L6, chrome and black - all the stopping power of the original DE but lighter and easier to handle, especially one handed. He had one once...four years ago, five...it ran out of ammo in a gunfight and he chucked it. "Alright," she said. "Get up."

Patting his knees as if to coax them into supporting him, he got to his feet, and a bolt of red lightning went up his leg. He didn't flinch, but something must have betrayed him, for Lynn bunched her lips to one side in thought. "Can you make it?" she asked, no accusation or disdain in her voice.

"I'm fine," Lincoln said and limped toward the door. Lynn walked beside him, her steps slow and babylike to match his pace. She held the gun in the hand farthest away from him, and her finger lay across the trigger guard. Her body was coiled like a spring, shoulders squared, teeth clenched tightly as though prepared for a fist to crash into the side of her face. He told her wasn't going to try anything, and even though he was familiar with captor-captive etiquette, he was offended nevertheless.

The stable sat off what passed for a side street in Bartertown - a narrow dirt track flanked by wooden shacks with thin chimneys emitting curls of white smoke. The sun had sunk behind the wall, and bars of shadows lay across the ground like puddles of sickness. A woman stood on the porch of cabin that leaned too far to the right and batted a rug with a broomstick, and children played tag in a dusty lot between a pig pen filled with snorting hogs and a rusting Airstream trailer. There were four, a boy and three girls, all about four; their happy giggles lightly scented the air and Lincoln watched them with wistful longing. His own daughter was that age when -

He quashed that thought with extreme prejudice. "What's the story with this place?" he asked by way of getting his mind off painful matters. "It been here long?"

Compared to the stable, it was cool out here in the wind, and the sweat on his torso dried. His lank white hair ruffled, a strand falling across his eyes. He moved it out of the way, and Lynn shot him a skittish glance, as though he were finally making his play for freedom. She saw that he wasn't and relaxed, but only a little. "Since the beginning," she said. A woman walked a mule in the opposite direction, and flicked her eyes suspiciously to Lincoln, who smiled affably and nodded. She bowed her head and hurried past, her high-strung reaction pleasing him. "Founded by J. Harriman Loud, the oil tycoon."

Didn't ring a bell.

"He used to own everything from here to Death Valley. Then...the war happened...and he brought his family and friends out here." She missed a beat. "He was going to build a house here, so there was sewer and water hook up. We built everything ourselves." She said that with beaming pride, as though Bartertown was the crowning achievement of the wastelands. To be fair, maybe it was.

"Yeah, I can tell," Lincoln said snidely, and took great satisfaction in the withering look she gave him. Something occurred to him. "Harrison Loud...I'm guessing he was Lola's father, right?"

"_Harriman _Loud," Lynn said, "and yeah, that was her father." Her voice oozed antipathy so venomous Lincoln needed a trip to the emergency room.

"You don't like her," he said, "do you?"

She opened her mouth, but thought better of it. "She's our leader," she said cooly, as though Lola's dominion were a sad and regrettable fact of life, and from that alone, he knew. "I stand behind our leader, no matter who they are."

Lincoln laughed out loud - he couldn't help it - and the dirty look Lynn threw him didn't help matters. "What is she, eighteen? Nineteen?"

"Twenty-one," Lynn corrected. She sounded defensive again.

"That makes all the difference," Lincoln snorted. They were on the main drag now. A wooden sign with yellow lettering proclaimed it LOLA DRIVE. It ran the length of the village, from the main gate (consisting of wrought iron bars wrapped in barbed wire, steel plating, and a dusty yellow bus with BONE COUNTY SCHOOLS stenciled on the side parked across its width) to the palace at the very rear. The gate was flanked on either side by guard towers with pitched roofs. Giant tires were stacked at each one's base, along with heaps of sandbags, rows of barbed wire, and sharpened metal pikes. A fleet of cars stood to one side, low and sleek with mounted machine guns on the roof, roll bars, spiked grills, blades jutting from the hubcaps, and massive, exposed engine blocks.

"She's not _that _bad," Lynn sighed. "She has a lot of shit to deal with, and she's done better than I thought she would."

Dilapidated buildings lined the dusty, pothole riddled lane. Ahead, an open air market filled the street, vendors hawking wares from wooden carts and tables. People moved back and forth, and every face Lincoln saw was wan with worry. Maybe he was biased, since he didn't know what a normal day in Bartertown felt like, but the atmosphere seemed heavy to him, solemn, everyone simply going through the motions of life while waiting for the hammer to inevitably drop. The dread was palpable, pushing against his chest like an outstretched hand; laughter drifted from an open window, and he jumped a little.

"What about Mr. Muscleman?" he asked Lynn. "What's his story?"

Lynn took a deep breath. "He and his people showed up about a year ago. There were other groups in the area...then there weren't. They either joined him or -"

"Died?" Lincoln offered.

She nodded dourly. "Yeah. Most of the guys with him were ex-highway patrol and former military. No one knows much about him, but for my money, he was an army general before. Or a police chief. Something like that."

A woman in a black burka, dark, exotic eyes peering from a camel, sun-kissed face, hurried past them, followed by a little girl about six with her black hair in what Lincoln thought was a French braid - he wasn't too sure. He could never keep track of things like that. She wore flowing pink pants and a blue button up with tiny polka dots...pink, yellow, green. Her stride was long as she kept up with her mother, displaying none of the older woman's trepidation at his presence. Kids can be cruel, they say, but they're more innocent and accepting than not. Lincoln smiled softly at her and wondered what his own daughter would look like now if she were alive.

His chest squeezed and tears threatened to flood his eyes. It didn't matter. She was gone. Just like his wife, and his parents, and everything else.

"Lola wanted to keep the peace," Lynn explained. She realized she was pulling ahead of him and slowed. She was tense, like a Maserati doing the speed limit when all it wants to do is be opened up. "So she practically gave him a shit ton of gasoline, and in exchange he did security work for us that we really didn't want or need." Her stride, Lincoln noticed, was easier, her posture not as rigid. Her defenses were melting by degrees, but he sensed that if he tried something, she'd take him down just as quickly. The greatest attribute one can have in today's world is vigilance, to be constantly aware of one's surroundings without becoming jumpy and overwhelmed with paranoia. It's a precise balance that is harder to strike than one may think. Lynn seemed to have mastered it. Of course she had - she was strong. He could feel that like heat wafting from a fire. Against his will, he felt himself respecting her. "He has this sick obsession with Lola, and ever since he turned up, he's been trying to get her to marry him." A repulsed shudder went through her and her lips puckered sourly.

Remembering the woman on the catwalk, Lincoln asked, "And he killed off the men?"

They were passing through the market now - old women browsed selections of meat, fabric, trinkets, and other miscellania. Slightly younger women picked through bins filled with sliced cactus, beans, peppers, squash, zucchini, eggplant, and cucumbers, and a teenage girl in a green apron carried an arm load of corn ears to a folding table, setting them down one by one. The street Lori and Luan lead him down on their way to the stable ran through a massive vegetable garden where women in plain dresses and kerchiefs tended to rows of leafy green plants.

Lynn nodded. "Yeah."

Part of him wanted to drop it...but another part, the one confined deep in the depths of his soul, wanted, nay, _needed _to hear the rest. "Was it bad?" he asked, voice lowering.

The palace appeared at the end of the street, hoving over the shacks and shanties like a majestic ocean liner over rusted tug boats. More guards walked the grounds than before, all armed with automatic rifles, and Lincoln caught a glint from the roof. A woman in a backwards baseball cap and sunglasses stared off into the west, searching endlessly for a telltale cloud of dust that would signify the return of Ginormous and his men.

"Not as bad as it could have been," Lynn said.

Two guards flanked the steps leading up to the walkway, one a blonde and the other Hispanic with jagged teeth and a thick unibrow. The former held an MP5 submachine gun and the latter an AR-15 with an extended clip, a scope, and a shoulder strap. Both women stood up straighter when they saw Lynn, and she nodded to them.

Lincoln's ankle burst with every step, and on the stairs, he gripped the railing and rested a moment. Lynn stopped and looked at him with a strange mix of pity and impatience. He took a deep breath and forced himself on, his limp heavier now. Inside, a blonde woman in a white apron over a simple blue dress swished out of the throne room and started for the stairs, but stopped when she glimpsed them from the corner of her eye. She turned and smiled brightly. "Hi, Lynn," she said in an airy voice. She flicked her limpid eyes to Lincoln, and her gaze went immediately to his bare chest, her mouth falling open. Hey, thot, my eyes are up here.

"Hi, Leni," Lynn said, "is Queen Lola ready for us?"

Leni gaped at Lincoln's chiseled physique, and never had he found a woman's appreciation more uncomfortable. He'd never made it a habit to openly gawk at a woman himself, but neither had he ever truly put himself in one's shoes - earning whistles, catcalls, and hungry stares just walking down the street. Being a normal man who enjoyed attention from the opposite sex, he always imagined it must be a good feeling, but it wasn't.

How long had it been since the women of Bartertown had a man? From the way Lola, Lori, Luan, and now Leni looked at him, you'd think they'd gone years, the pressure building and building until any man, any at all, would do. At some point in his past, far, far, far back, he may have found that concept exciting...a woman repressed and consumed by lust...but now it was off putting.

"Leni?" Lynn asked again.

The blonde snapped her jaw closed and shook her head like a woman emerging from a trance. Her cheeks flushed a not unattractive shade of pink and her eyes, clear just a moment before, smoldered with misty desire.

Adopting a careful, overbearing tone, like one would use with an exceptionally stupid child, Lynn asked again, "Is Queen Lola ready for us?"

Leni gave a jerky nod. "Y-Yeah, she's, um, she's ready." With one final, longing look at Lincoln, she turned and rushed up the stairs, her hands pulling the hem of her dress her to allow her feet safe passage. Lincoln let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and gulped in relief like a man who had just narrowly avoided being flattened by a falling billboard. He searched his mind for a witty quip, but didn't have one, so he followed Lynn into the throne room instead. The torches blazed still, casting soft glow across the walls, and Lola sat on her pedestal as before, decked in a spill of sun like an Old Testament prophet basking in God's favor. She was alone this time, her servants off on other tasks, and as they approached, a tiny smile crept across her pink lips.

In lieu of kneeling, Lynn deeply bowed, Lincoln stood tall and defiant - he'd take all the abuse in the world before bowing to a twenty-one-year-old megalomaniac. "Your Majesty," Lynn greeted.

Lola nodded politely, then turned to Lincoln, her emerald eyes creeping up and down his body, touching, feeling, exploring, and a blush much like Leni's colored her face. Lincoln pointedly crossed his arms, and she grinned evilly. "Are the stables clean?" she asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln replied shortly.

"Good," she said. Then to Lynn: "Bring him here."

Lynn glanced at him, perhaps to see if she would have to physically escort him, but he went up the stairs by himself, and she followed. On the platform, Lola looked up at him, that smug little simper of her widening and her blush deepening. God alone knew what she wanted from him. "Kneel down," she said, barely above a whisper.

Lincoln hesitated and looked at Lynn. Would she force him if he didn't do it on his own?

She nodded as if to say she would.

Taking a deep breath, he dropped to one knee, head hung in shame. Lola's knees sat inches from his face, two gentle mounds beneath the fabric of her robe. She held something out to Lynn.  
"Put this on him."

He looked up. A studded collar on a leash dangled from one small, manicured hand. Lynn looked at it dumbfounded, as though she'd never seen one before...and didn't like it. She darted her eyes to Lola's. "T-This?" she asked, a catch in her voice.

Lola hummed. "Umhm."

Lynn turned from her to him and back again, looking for all the world like a deer frozen in oncoming headlights. "I-Is that really necessary, Your -?"

"Yes it is," Lola spat. "Now it _put it on him." _

For a moment, the security chief wavered, and Lincoln almost believed she would refuse. Instead, she took it tentatively, as though touching it disgusted her, and offered him a repentant frown. Surprisingly, she didn't want this anymore than he did. Guess she had a little humanity after all.

Her support, moral if not material, was enough to quell the outrage blossoming in his chest. In the time he'd spent with her, which, admittedly, wasn't much, he'd come to respect her the way one general respects another. They were on opposite sides of a war, their interests in direct conflict, but she was not, he sensed, quite the Hun he took her for. She was a woman doing what she had to in order to ensure the safety and stability of her people. To be sure, she was going about it all fucking wrong, but she wasn't eating babies and wantonly massacring Jews. Her reluctance to do this, even if it was brief and quiet, spoke volumes to her character. Under other circumstances, he would have offered at least token resistance - the kind meant to make a point rather than to achieve an end - but now, he simply tilted his head back and dutifully presented his throat. Lynn flicked her eyes nervously to Lola, who nodded curtly.

Leaning over, Lynn slipped the collar around his neck, her cheek skimming his and her breath hot against his ear, prickling his flesh and making him wince. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice as brisk as Lola's nod. She pulled the strap slowly, with great care, closing the leather around his jugular. "Is it too tight?" she asked.

"No," he stated.

She lingered for an indecisive moment, then stood to her full height, looking quickly away as she did with the woman at Ginormous's feet that morning. Lola tugged the leash, and the collar tightened momentarily, threatening but not cutting off his air supply. "Thank you, Lynn," she said, "you're excused."

"Are you sure you don't need - ?" Lynn started, grasping, it seemed, for a reason to stay.

"Go," Lola said.

Lynn nodded and, without another look at Lincoln, went down the stairs and hurried out. He watched her over his shoulder, and when she was gone, his stomach panged. Though it wounded his pride, he couldn't delude himself: He was a little afraid of being alone with Lola. He looked up at her, and she stared down her nose at him with sultry eyes, her closed-lipped smile containing all the warmth of an ice cube. Lincoln hated her guts and could hardly restrain a sneer of contempt, but he was a fair man and always gave the devil his due. Inside, Lola was vile, like sandpaper dipped in acid, but outside, she was beautiful_, _her smooth, creamy skin like white satin, bare arms sleek and slender; her feline eyes exotic and heart-stopping, smoldering and haughty; her soft features exquisitely crafted, pert nose and high cheekbones, a tiny mole over the left corner of her mouth; her silky hair reminiscent of summer wheat, her tiara reflecting the ambient light; and her shimmery, sensuous lips, slightly parted to reveal the slim gap between her front teeth, decreeing to be kissed.

Too bad he didn't recognize the sovereignty of that decree.

Lincoln found his voice. "You ever get deja vu?" he asked facetiously. Lola arched a quizzical brow, as if fascinated that the cretin before her could actually _speak. _Bitterness crept into Lincoln's voice as he continued. "It's like I've seen this somewhere…"

"And to _what, _exactly, are you referring?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He smiled coldly and yanked against the leash. She still didn't understand. "You and that Ginormous guy," he said, "you got a lot in common."

He expected her to purse her lips in annoyance, or to draw the leash tight in punishment, but she threw her head back instead and bubbled firm, mocking laughter that irritated him to no end. "Indeed," she said, as if in response to a particularly droll joke. "Except for virtually everything."

"Pretty sure I saw a woman chained up at his feet a few hours ago," Lincoln retorted. "Like this."

Lola lidded her eyes condescendingly. "He's a sadist, honey, he does that sort of thing for amusement. _I _have a reason for what I do." She jutted her chin out in that smug way of hers.

"Yeah? What's your reasoning for _this_?"

"Well, Lincoln Loud," Lola said, putting a teasing twist on his new given name, "we discussed this earlier. You refused my offer and _greatly _offended me."

"I'm kind of offended too."

She rolled her eyes. "What you feel doesn't matter right now. I gave you a chance to join my kingdom, and asked only that you contribute. I ask the same thing of everyone, and no one else has a problem with doing their part. We are in this together and we must _work _together. Maybe there was a time when you could go off and do your own thing, but that time is over. Bartertown is a well-oiled machine, with every cog and gear playing its role. We are small enough that even one component breaking down will grind us to a halt. You, Lincoln, are that faulty element."

Lincoln blinked in surprise at her analogy. It wasn't especially inspired, but was more than he expected from _her _of all people.

"We have a problem in Bartertown and I aim to fix it like I would any other problem...with cool and practical detachment. Your involvement in the Impregnation Proclamation should _not _present as big an issue as it has. Outside of these walls, you are nothing, you have nothing, and will always _be _nothing. You are a glorified sand nigger. No more."

Lincoln almost flinched.

"I am offering you the opportunity to start anew," she nodded for emphasis as she spoke. Her tone was strained but patient. "You can have something here. You can _be _something here. I can't promise you paradise, but I can give you the same quality of life I've given everyone else. No, it is not much, but it's far better than life out _there_. I require only that you display a little community spirit and get with the program. People here with a special ability are asked to _use _that ability. I don't know what abilities you have beyond what is between your legs, but right now, that is the only thing that matters to me. One day, it won't, and you can be whatever you want. If you can fix cars, you may work in the auto pool. If you were a doctor, you may work with Lisa in the infirmary. If you are musically inclined, you may play an instrument. I really don't care, Lincoln. I don't wish to micromanage your life anymore than I wish to micromanage anyone else's. At the moment, however, I _need _you to do your part in propagating our race."

She crossed her arms and sat back, indicating she was done. Lincoln stared up at her, amazed by both her eqliquence and her innate pomposity. She spoke as though she were a kind and charitable God and he an insolent peon rejecting her selfless gifts. Christ dying on the cross for all of mankind's sins could not have been more full of himself, or so blind to his colossal ego. She failed to realize that she wasn't the only one with motivations - Ginormous had them too, and like Lola, he probably thought they were ultimately and objectively _right._ There is nothing more dangerous than an ideologue who is assured of his or her own righteousness.

How should he go about replying to her? She was certainly intelligent enough to mentally process his reasoning, but did she have the heart to _care? _The way she spoke of her master plan and the scolding light in her eyes told him that she did not. Her mind was made up and no logic or appeal to emotions could persuade her.

Therefore, he wouldn't even attempt t. Instead, he'd focus on a more pressing topic. "That's all good and well," he said, humoring her, "but right now, you have bigger fish to fry. What are you going to do about Sir. Ginormous?"

Lola's forehead knitted in displeasure, but her eyes flashed with fear. "Don't worry about that," she said sharply.

"If you want me to be a member of your little community, I _have _to worry about it. Are you gonna fight him, or are you gonna give in?"

"I don't wish to speak of this," Lola said and whipped her head away, "I have the situation under control."

It was clear from her tone, however, that she did not. "You sure about that?" Lincoln asked. "What are your plans? He has more people, but you have the high ground. If you play your cards right, you can -"

"_Enough!" _

Her voice rolled through the throne room like thunder, and Lincoln jumped. "I will not entertain this matter further. Right now, I am more concerned with your insubordination. Why do you refuse to do as I ask?"

Lincoln sighed. It was hopeless. She'd rather concentrate on something of no import than on a tangible threat - better to live in the clouds than to wiggle in the dirt, he supposed. "Because I don't want to do it," Lincoln said plainly. "And I won't."

Lola's nostrils flared. "Fine," she said, "if you won't do that, you'll be my pet." The corners of her lips curled wickedly up despite herself. Lincoln showed no reaction, but his heart twinged regardless. "Turn around."

He didn't immediately comply, and with an ugly grimace, she yanked the leash hard, nearly upsetting his balance. "Turn, dog. _Now._"

Hating her even more, he spun on his knees and faced the door. "There," Lola cooed and laid her hand on the top of his head. She grazed his scalp with her nails, and tingles of sensation both awful and exciting crackled along his spine. "That's better."

Oh? Could have fooled _him_.

Momentarily, Leni came in from the foyer with a silver tray in her hands; her head was hanged, as though looking into the brilliance of Lola's face would strike her dead, and her steps were hurried. "Ah," Lola said with evident delight, "there you are."

Leni came up the steps and lifted her head, her eyes going instantly to Lincoln and her forehead crinkling in confusion. She faltered and came to a halt. Lola crossed her arms, and the leash pulled, but not enough choke him. "Excuse me."

Snapping to attention, Leni sat the tray on a hitherto unseen table next to throne. She picked up a silver tea kettle and poured some into a white cup; there was a cringing, skittish dog like quality to her movements that suggested she was downright terrified of incurring her mistress's wrath, and Lincoln couldn't suppress a rush of pity. Not that long ago, he thought of everyone here as his enemy, but now he wasn't quite sure they were. Oh, if he tried to run, they'd heed their Queen's call to bring him down, he couldn't rely on any of them for help or pity, but they were victims themselves in a way, and whatever they did to him was spurred not by personal enmity but by fear. Lola might not think so, but she presided over a dictatorship, and her people were compelled to follow her wishes lest they wind up like him. That didn't make them any less dangerous, but there was justification to their actions that he could not ignore. If he needed to, however, he'd kill them just as quickly as they would kill him.

Lola took the cup without so much as a thank you. "Did you bring the water?" she asked.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Leni muttered fearfully. She picked up a ceramic bowl full of clear water, its surface rippling with her movements, and held it out to her lord.

"It's not for me," Lola scoffed, "it's for _him._" She nodded to Lincoln. "Set it on the floor."

Leni blinked. "T-The floor?"

"That's what I said," Lola snottily, "isn't it?"

"Y-Yes, Your Majesty." Leni twisted around, and her eyes locked with Lincoln's. Like Lynn before her, she looked away from the pitiable sight before her and sat the water down in front of him with a clank; some of the liquid splashed over the side and soaked into the wood. Lincoln swallowed and realized for the first time that he was thirsty.

"That will be all," Lola said. "Leave the tray."

Leni nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty." Gripping the front of her dress, she pulled the hem up and scurried away like a timid mouse, leaving him once again with Lola.

Taking a sip, the Queen sighed in satiation. "Drink, boy," she said, her voice rising and falling with sadistic glee. Lincoln looked down into the water, and his face was reflected on the surface, a shimmering mirage image that appeared more phantom than human. His face blazed with shame, but his dry, cracking throat cried out for cold, wet relief. Bracing his hands on the floor, he bent forward like a Muslim in prayer. When the water touched his lips, he slurped a mouthful and swallowed. When he was done, he sat back on his knees and went to wipe his mouth with the back of his hands, and Lola yanked the leash. "Dogs don't have have arms," she said.

Lincoln laid his hand on his lap. She threaded her fingers through his hair again, and stroked him slowly. "You'll learn," she promised and issued a soulless giggle. Her fingertips skimmed down the side of his throat, lingering just a little too long on his skin to be platonic. "And when you do, you'll do _exactly _what I want."


	5. The Fall of Night

**Put yourself in Lincoln's shoes. He was shot, kidnapped, handcuffed, forced into labor, and manhandled by Lynn and Lana on more than one occasion. He's still dealing with the death of his daughter, which was very painful for him, and the thought of ever having children again - of possibly reliving that pain - scares the shit out of him. He's not some guy walking down the street and feeling good that a woman catcalled him, he's a prisoner in a strange place full of people he sees as the enemy. Lola threatened to cut his balls open and everywhere he looks, these women are staring at him like hungry dogs. On a normal Saturday night, women checking you out is great, but under his circumstances, it's not. As far as he knows, he's going to be chained up in a cage and used for breeding. So no, he doesn't like them staring at him, and yes, it makes him uncomfortable.**

**Joni C69: Lola being a domintrix and Lincoln being her pet is a pretty common set up, I think. Ginormous is Clyde, I never gave Lincoln's wife and daughter names (I think), and Lisa isn't pregnant. She has a teenage son.**

**The character Lamis, who appears briefly in this chapter and later, belongs to TMNTFan AKA Salvo1985**

* * *

The setting sun cast feeble light over the stark salt flats west of US16, its rays creeping across the ground like advancing lava, as inexorable and inescapable as the tide of time itself. The sun, blazing like the malevolent eye of a bloodthirsty god, sank behind craggy mountaintops, and shadows pooled deep in the valley.

Once a main route through the Mojave, running from the California/Nevada border in the east to Fresno in the west, Highway 16 stood empty, its shoulders littered with wrecks, bleaching bones, and trash blowing in the harsh desert wind. Many of the derelicts were recent, strange road machines built for battle by untrained hands. A 1976 Firebird, its nose in a ditch running alongside the pavement and its rear sticking straight up, was mounted with homemade flamethrowers, and a quarter mile farther on, a school bus laying on its side like a wounded animal sported a cattle guard on its grill and metal pikes sticking from its hubcaps. For several miles, a steep hillside flanks the highway's westernmost lane. A sign, faded white scrawl on gray, weathered wood stood over the wastelands, a large buzzard perched atop it. Jahannamu. Swahili for hell. Even farther down, past a dry riverbed, a decomposing body hung from a telephone pole, its chin loling against its chest and a placard around its neck. WOMAN BEATER.

Three miles west of the highway as the crow flies, a giant ring of vehicles formed a crooked parameter around a hastily erected tent city. Smoke drifted from a dozen fires, shirtless men dug a latrine like convicts breaking rocks on a chain gang, and two women in head coverings tended a flock of sickly, malnourished sheep that wouldn't yield very much meat when they were slaughtered. Elsewhere, a very muscular white man in an olive tank top and brown camo pants sat on a red Igloo cooler with a white top and skinned a coyote with a hunting knife, the carcass draped limply over his lap like a sodden cloth. He hummed a tuneless snatch of song as he worked, his movements quick and precise. On the other side of camp, a man in goggles and a pair of dusty coveralls bent over the engine block of a 2010 Mustang GT with a roof mounted .50 cal. Another man, Hispanic with a splotchy mustache, leaned against the front end with his arms crossed and watched his comrade work. The driver and passenger side doors both stood open, fast paced heavy metal music blaring from the speakers.

The settlement, which would pull up stake in two days and not come back, one way or another, numbered nearly three hundred people, a mixed bag of races, nationalities, and skill sets. Some were Mexican bandidos who wandered over the border; some were Hell's Angels; some were former police officers; others still were the remnants of the defeated tribes and groups who once occupied the western half of the The Wastelands.

Of that three hundred, ten were women, and only four of those were of childbearing age. Women did not fare well after the Collapse, and the demographics bore that out. There were eleven, but one died in childbirth three weeks before, like a bad omen. A group of men, having reverted to primal superstition, dragged the father into the desert and stoned him to death just in case it was somehow his fault. Better to be down a man than to risk him putting his murderous seed in one of the other few remaining women.

Being an invaluable resource, women were protected by the group as once endangered species were protected by game wardens. Most of the men did so not because they themselves believed in the women's worth, but because the leader did, and if the leader spoke something, it was law. Anyone who went against it was dealt with. There is no room for dissent, he was fond of saying, and any transgressions were met with force. Beating a woman, raping a woman, or otherwise hurting a woman were capital offenses - females were fragile, the leader said, and if you were too rough with them, they broke, and if they broke, they couldn't have children.

Other crimes were punished in lesser ways. Two weeks ago, Wez Hardgrove let the Humvee he was piloting overheat, ruining the engine and necessitating a lengthy replacement. His right hand was chopped off and the stump burned with fire. Before that, Deke Stone stole an extra ration of butter, and the leader tied him to a cactus and personally gave him one hundred lashes with a bullwhip.

Trespasses against the people did not happen very often. The leader's size, volatile reputation, and quick temper induced fear in his followers, and his seemingly omnipotence and sage wisdom commanded respect. The group, which had no name beyond Watu (the Swahili word for the people) did as he said without question, for he bestowed upon them a life that was, while not perfect, far better than they had known otherwise. Whispered rumors described amazing and impossible things the speaker saw with my own eyes. The leader picking up a car as though it were a sheet of plywood, then tossing it aside; the leader waving his hand and bringing the rain; the leader knowing things that no mortal man had any right to know. Everyone dismissed those stories as fairy tales, but they always did so with a nervous laugh, and when they shit or copulated, they couldn't help wondering if he was watching.

In one of the tents dotting the hardpan, a large black man sat at a scarred folding table, a yellowed US Geological Society survey map spread out before him. A white hockey masked covered his deformed face, and the faint wind slipping in through the flap stirred his sparse hair. His fingers drummed an ominous tempo on the desk; the back of his hand was blistered and crisscrossed with ancient scars, and the little flesh visible through the eyeholes of his mask was raw and red. A Colt Python, chrome with a cherry wood handle, sat at his right, and a dog eared photo at his left. It depicted three people. A white woman with blonde hair and green eyes, a wimpy black man with glassy and a sunny smile, and a little mixed girl with pigtails and eyes like her mother. He kept the snapshot with him always, usually tucked into one of his combat boots, and looked at when he was alone. The keen, gnashing pain he felt in the beginning had faded over the years, and he waited with dread expectation for the day when he looked at it and felt nothing at all. The people in that photo, what they had and what they shared, might as well have been in another lifetime...they might as well be someone other than him and his family.

Right now, though, his focus was on the map, his concentration so intense that in that moment, nothing else existed: Not the insistent desert heat, not the sweat trickling down his brow, not even his second-in-command standing over him, one hand splayed on the table and the other affectionately on his shoulder, white on black like a symbol of racial unity. A stout man with a shaved head, faded blue eyes, stubble, and an ugly pink scar across one sunken cheek, Chandler Farris looked far older than his eighteen years. There was a hardness about him that, in the old world, you did not usually find in boys his age. He was grizzled, tough, and cynical. The man once known as Clyde was sorry for this. Chandler was forced to grow up too soon, and sometimes, looking at him, he was heartbroken by the steeliness he saw. The alternative was worse, though. In this world, there is no place for the weak. You're either strong...or you're dead.

None of that concerned him at the moment. He scanned the map and found the thick black circle denoting the location of Bartertown. Once white, the area around it and up to the western flank of Route 16 was now shaded light red. Everything on this side of the highway belonged to him. Beyond the highway, the badlands were dotted with villages, like silvery needles in the proverbial haystack. He had not moved against them yet because the highway made a fine dividing line, and he did no wish to cross it until he'd seen to other matters.

"We break into four divisions," Sir. Ginormous said, his voice unsteady. He tapped one misshapen finger to the page, "and completely surround them. I want there to be a little bloodshed as possible." He looked up at Chandler. "And as little damage to the existing infrastructure as possible."

Chandler nodded. A world-weary man in many ways, Chandler was still a boy at heart, and he liked to see things go boom. Left to his own devices, he would rain hellfire and brimstone on Bartertown, and reduce it to rubble. Sir. Ginormous did not want that.

Earlier that morning, he told Lola, and her people, that he envisioned a sprawling kingdom and a better tomorrow. That was not a lie. He did. He also honestly believed that both factions were doomed without the other and that together, they could forge a better way. It would be dishonest of him, however, to say that Bartertown's rich reserves of gasoline, livestock, and gardens were not also enticing. It was an oasis in the desert, and he wanted it for his own.

He also wanted Lola.

His eyes went to the photograph. The resemblance between Lola and his Carol were not exact, but close enough to constitute a type. Slim, pretty, blonde. The former lacked the boundless warmth of the latter, and when he tried to picture himself finding the same level of contentment with Lola that he did with Carol, he discovered that he could not.

Even still, he would try. Bartertown was worth fighting for, his vision was worth fighting for, and the possibility of recapturing what he lost so long ago, even if remote, was worth fighting for as well.

His dreams for a better tomorrow, for both his people and himself, were hampered by Lola's arrogant refusal to join him. He had done everything to facilitate a peaceful merger, but she was steadfast in her rejection. Even after he sent killers to exterminate the men, she would not consider it.

She was a fair, lovely woman...but stupid too. She wanted the same thing he did, needed the same thing he did, but she would not let him love her. He waited months for her to change her mind but it was clear to him that she would not unless pushed. He fully expected her to capitulate to his demands, but if she did not, he would show her people no mercy. He would kill the children and the old, torture and execute the few males, and make the women slaves. If she gave in, he would treat them fairly. If she did not, he would lock them in cases and breed them like cattle.

Presently, he turned back to the map and picked up a Sharpie marker. He drew a line on all four sides of Bartertown then sat it aside. "At my signal, we move as one. We'll encounter light resistance but nothing major, I suspect. Once we have them encircled, we knock down the walls and go in. I want the livestock and gardens secured immediately." He looked up at Chandler and made eye contact to impress upon him the importance the aforementioned task, and the boy nodded that he understood. "If they see they're losing, they might try to destroy them to prevent us from using them." He did not know where the gasoline was kept, or he would have ordered it secured as well.

"What about the infirmary?" Chandler asked.

Sir. Ginormous gave the boy's hand a fatherly pat full of warmth and pride. "Good thinking. I want Lisa taken alive. Unharmed, if possible." He hesitated. "Her son too."

"Never hurts to have a bargaining chip," Chandler grinned, echoing one of Girnormous's oft-repeated mantras.

"Nothing inspires compliance like the threat of harm befalling a loved one," Ginormous said. He glanced at the map. "If I'm right, we won't have to go to the trouble."

Later, after Chandler left and night fell over the Mojave, Sir. Ginormous studied the photo of his wife and daughter by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp. His dinner, lamb and beans, sat on a metal plate to one side. He took a drink of water from a metal cup and sat it down. Carol stared up at him with a frozen smile, Cryandia with a elfin simper full of mischief. Ginormous's lips twitched into a wan ghost-of-a-smile and, reverently, he brushed his thumb over her face as he had a million times over the years. Sometimes, tt was hard to believe that once, he was a husband and father leading a normal life in the suburbs. The memories of that world were growing hazy, and most days, he could almost believe that it never happened at all, that he was born in the desert and had always been what he was now.

That both scared and infuriated him. He cherished the memories, and watching them slowly disappear made him sick. Out here, in the Wasteland, he was transforming, losing his humanity and possibly his sanity - he needed something to hang onto, something to pull him back from the brink.

And that thing was Bartertown. It was a bastion of normalcy and represented, to him, the first step on the road to healing. Africa, with which he had always been enamored, was the cradle of human civilization the first time around; this time it would be Bartertown. His people would spread throughout the world and remake society better than it was before. No more crime or drugs, no more racism or poverty - they could learn from their forefathers' mistakes and get it right. Things would be different this time. In the old world, they made the mistake of loosening morals and telling themselves they were liberated. They let cancer infect the body politick and did nothing to fight it. One tiny sin turned to another, then another, like a snowball rolling down hill. In the last days, the world's chickens came home to roost and fire, famine, and violence cleaned the land.

He wouldn't allow that to happen again. He would keep a firm hand. He would be inflexible. He would set his laws and the people would follow them or suffer greatly. Every bad apple would be plucked from the bunch and cast away, People need structure and a strong leader, and he would provide both of those things.

The only thing standing in his way were those frigid morons. They held the key to his salvation, and to their own, but were too stupid and self-absorbed to realize it.

Anger seized him, and with a sigh, he pushed away from the desk and got to his feet. Throwing a black cloak over his shoulders, he went out into the chilly night. Fires dotted the camp, men sitting around each one laughing, smoking, and talking. Alcohol was banned, but every once in a while, someone found a bottle somewhere - the punishment for drunkenness was fifty lashes. A second infraction earned the wrongdoer death. Except, of course, in the case of women. Two of Watu's women were permanently imprisoned over repeat offenses, one for drug use and the other for murder. They occupied steel cages in the back of a pick-up truck, and were designated community property. Twice a day, a name was picked from the waiting list, and the lucky winner was given one hour with one of them. The idea was to give the men an outlet for their sexual energies - men need the warm softness of a woman as surely as plants need sunlight, and without it, they go a little crazy. The two lifers, however, took the edge off. After tomorrow, that wouldn't be as big a concern, though men would still outnumber women two to one.

In circumstances such as those, the traditional nuclear family has no place. In his regime, women would be compelled to bear the children of many different men. Save for Lola...she was his and his alone.

Pulling his cloak closed at the throat, he bent his head against the cold breeze and walked into the darkness.

* * *

Lincoln Loud tugged at the collar of his tuxedo and uncomfortably rolled his neck. It was too small for him - tight around the arms and chest - and constricted his breathing worse than the collar...which he no longer wore.

For now.

He was standing in the palace's big kitchen and waiting for the roast to be done. Leni opened the oven door, peeked in, and closed it again. Lucy, a pale woman with black hair that veiled her eyes, tossed a salad, and Lamis, a slight girl with long brown hair and freckles rushed back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off as she desperately searched for nutmeg. She looked worried, and when she finally found it, the relief that crossed her face was so great, Lincoln would have smiled were he in a better mood. She carried it over to a big pot of soup boiling on the stove and sprinkled some in, standing on her tippy toes to reach. At a guess, she was fifteen or sixteen, barely old enough to hold a job in the old world, and if Lincoln remembered correctly, she had a baby with Lester. All three were clad in white aprons over blue dresses and wore kerchiefs on their heads; they reminded him of Alice from Alice in Wonderland - Leni more than the others, given her blonde hair.

"Is this enough?" Lamis asked Leni uncertainly.

Leni came over, took the ladle from her, and dipped it into the concoction. She lifted it to her lips, slurped, and rolled her eyes to the side in thought. "A little more," she said and handed it back. Before Lamis could ask what constituted a little more, the older woman was off, disappearing into the walk-in pantry.

Roughly twenty-five, Leni was the head of palace staff. Soft spoken and exuding warmth, she floated through the chambers and halls like a helpful spirit, stopping to remove every speck of dust and to right every crooked portrait. After Lola handed him over to her care, Leni gave him the grand tour, speaking and gesturing with so much pride that you'd be forgiven for thinking she built the place herself. In the near two hours they'd been together, Lincoln had caught her stealing furtive glances at him, her cheeks tinged with rosy color that was admittedly lovely. She was a petite thing, no more than one hundred and ten pounds, but the fire he glimpsed in her eyes suggested a mad reserve of brute strength that he would be all but powerless to fight against if the shackles holding her back were to break. Once dinner was started, she threw herself into that and hadn't spared him a second glance since, but Lincoln had the sneaking suspicion that if he spent too much time around her, she'd eventually snap and jump his bones.

She presently returned with a giant tub of homemade butter in her hands, her arms quivering and her knees shaking, and lugged it over to the counter. Lucy finished with the salad, turned, and grabbed a misshapen loaf of bread from a bread box. She sat it on a plate, took out a wickedly serrated knife, and cut it into thin slices. Lamis tasted the soup, pursed her lips indecisively, then added a little more nutmeg before returning it to the cabinet. Leni hummed as she took pieces of bread from Lucy, one at a time, slathered them in butter, and sat them on a separate plate. There was a domestic charm and smooth fluidity in the women's actions suggesting that they were not only completely at ease with each other, but that they had also done this so many times in the past that it came second nature. Lincoln, for some odd reason, mentally likened this ritual to a path beaten even and bare by the passage of a million feet; they fell into their respective roles like a puzzle piece falling snugly into place, and everything they did was most likely no different than what they had done the day before.

As they worked, they chatted like old friends, and the surreality of it all made Lincoln's head spin. Less than fifty feet away, beyond the wall protecting Bartertown from the outside, chaos and lawlessness reigned. Groups of feral men clashed over water, gasoline, and trinkets from the old world, but here, in this spot, things went on much as they had before. If you squinted, you could almost forget that the past seven years had happened. What he saw before him was so vastly different from what he had grown accustomed to, so utterly alien, that he could scarcely breathe. Such a normal thing, women preparing a meal, but one that was so rare nowadays, that it might as well have been the freakish irregularity, not everything else. The wastelands, the death, the dying, the caravans, the tribes - all of that was normal. This...this was not.

He pulled at his collar again and took a deep breath. The air, redolent of good smells, was humid, and pressed against him like a wet blanket. Sweat trickled down the back of neck and dribbled into his eyes. He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and swallowed. "Lincy," Leni said, "can you get ten bowls from the pantry and fill them with soup, please?" She stood at the counter, buttering bread, her back to him and her dress swishing as she swayed slightly back and forth as if to music only she could hear.

"Yeah," he said. He pushed away from the jamb and crossed the kitchen, limping heavily and clenching his jaw to hide the pain. In the pantry, tall metal shelves stacked with cans and dried goods stood against three of the walls. Plates, bowls, and cookware occupied one of them, and Lincoln went to it. "How many?" he called over his shoulder.

"Ten," Leni instantly replied.

Lincoln counted ten bowls, picked them up in a teetering stack, and brought them into the kitchen. He sat them on the counter next to the stove in two rows of five, then ladled soup into each one. Too bad I don't have any poison, he thought bitterly. He stopped and turned to the pantry. Actually…

A yellow box of rat poison sat on one of the bottom shelves along with jugs of bleach, Windex, and other disinfectants. He saw it when he went in but didn't consciously register it. He didn't know who tonight's guests were going to be, but Leni called them all the powerful people. What constituted 'powerful people' in Bartertown was beyond Lincoln, but he imagined Lynn would be there and maybe Lisa. He imagined them at the long banquet table in the dining room, convulsing and foaming at the mouth as the poison took effect, and was discomfited to find that the thought of Lynn dying as such mildly disturbed him. He respected her, after all - if he were forced to kill her, a quick, clean shot to the head would suffice.

"Okay, that's totes enough," Leni said firmly, drawing him out of his thoughts.

Lucy said something around a mouthful of food.

"You had two pieces," Leni said. "You don't need a third."

Lincoln finished filling the bowls and stepped back. Lamis came over, dropped to her knees, and opened a cabinet. Rummaging around, she brought out a silver tray, stood, and sat it on the island counter. "Put them on there," she directed, her voice soft and demure. She sounded like she was afraid to speak to him. He really couldn't blame her, he supposed. In an insular community like this, any outsider is bound to arouse suspicion and distrust, doubly when that outsider is a man with weather beaten skin, stubble, and hardness in his eyes.

While Lamis went off to do whatever, Lincoln sat the bowls on the platter. Across the kitchen, Leni opened the oven door again, bent down to check the roast, then stood to her full height. She took two pot holders from the counter, bent once more, then pulled the roast out and sat it on the stove. "I think I added too many onions," she fretted and touched her finger to her chin.

"Take some out," Lucy said in that low monotone of hers, "I'll eat them."

Leni rolled her eyes. "You'll, like, eat anything."

"Onions are good," Lucy said. "I eat them like apples."

Leni shivered in disgust. "Ew, gross. No you don't."

"I totally do," Lucy said.

Leni crossed her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and shook her head. "That's nasty. You're nasty."

"You should see me in bed," Lucy said, then blushed deeply when she remembered Lincoln was present. Leni was shocked into laughter and covered her with her hands, turning quickly away. Lincoln was aware, but didn't really give a shit; he was focused on his goddamn ankle. It throbbed like an abscessed tooth, every beat of his heart sending pangs of hot agony rippling through his body.

Shaking her head again, Leni picked up a knife and carved the roast. "Lincy," she said, "can you take the soup out to the table, please?"

He glanced nervously at the tray; it looked heavy. Any other time, that would not present a problem, but with a bum ankle, he wasn't sure he could handle it.

Oh well. Only one way to find out.

Picking it up, he tested the weight. It wasn't as bad as he feared, but bad enough. Gripping the edges tightly, he carried it out of the kitchen and down a long, dimly lit hall. The regal sounds of laughter and faint classic music met him halfway, and he rolled his eyes.

A swinging door opened onto the dining hall. When he first saw it earlier during Leni's tour, he was shocked by its extravagance. Richly paneled oak, lush green carpeting, brass lamps affixed to the walls casting low and ambient illumination, upholstered chairs, a credenza decorated with golden candelabras, sparkling crystal, and busts of people Lincoln vaguely remembered from school - one was Mozart, he thought, and another was Edgar Allan Poe. The table, long and narrow, gleaming in the light, was laid with a red runner, a candelabra in the middle, flickering suffusion lending the congregation the dim, shadowy air of a 17th century painting.

Lola sat at the head like a sea captain, her hair done up in a tall bun that reminded Lincoln of Frankenstein's bride, a corkscrew strand hanging free and caressing one high cheekbone. She wore an elegant, low cut pink dress, pearls, and white gloves that reached her elbows. Her feline eyes were shadowed a smoky and alluring shade of purple and rouge lent her cheeks a light, rosy color. Her glossy pink mouth turned up in a biting smile when Lincoln entered, and her teeth brushed her bottom lip...slowly...suggestively.

Nine other women sat at the table, facing each other across its oaken surface. The only ones Lincoln recognized were Lisa, Lynn, and Lana. Lisa wore a maroon colored blouse and black pants, while the latter two were both clad in dark zip up jackets over their white uniforms; gold star patches on the shoulders served as a symbol of their authority. Lynn spared him a quick, repentant glance, then looked down at her plate.

The chatter died as every eye turned to him. He saw none of the raw lust he dreaded, only analytical curiosity. The men of Bartertown couldn't have been more than six months dead, but looking at its women, you'd think it had been so long they forgot what a male even was, and couldn't decide it the species was inquiring or repulsive.

"Ah," Lola said delightedly, "the soup is here."

Lincoln ascertained from her tone that the food wasn't what she was happy to see. He sat the platter on the table, he carefully picked up a bowl and set it in front of Lola, who watched him with sinful eyes and a risque smile. Lincoln kept his eyes down and fought back a degraded blush. He started to move on, but she laid her hand on the back of his. He froze and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Smiling devilishly, she traced his knuckles with her fingertips, the satiny fabric of her glove scraping his skin and sending a shiver down his spine. "Thank you, Lincoln," she said in a husky whisper.

He was suddenly aware of everyone watching them, their gazes hot, heavy, like a ton of smoldering coals.

"You're welcome," he said.

Lola tilted her head and lifted her brow. Her eyes twinkled in the gentle firelight. "Thank you what?"

Lincoln missed a beat, then frowned dourly when he realized what she wanted. "You're welcome," he said, then, bitingly, "Your Majesty."

Lola lidded her eyes and parted her lips as though basking in his non-existent adoration. The scarlet in her cheeks deepened as she stroked the back of his hand. Lincoln suffered it for a moment more, then ripped it away and turned to get another bowl of soup. All of the women present turned away at once with a near deafening rustle of fabric; to their credit, they each looked as uncomfortable as he felt.

Keeping his head down to hide his mortification, he put a bowl in front of every woman, starting with Lisa and ending with Lynn, none speaking or otherwise acknowledging his presence save for Lynn who offered a weak and muttered, "Thank you."

He picked up the empty platter and hurried out. In the hall, he exhaled. Being shot, beaten, and tortured was one thing, but constant abasement was another entirely. He had half a mind to get a knife from the kitchen, go back in there, and plunge it into Lola's puny A-cup chest.

Instead, he took a deep breath and went to the kitchen, where ten wooden bowls laden with salad sat on the counter. Leni leaned against the sink and ate roast from a plate; Lamis sat with her back to the fridge and her legs before her in a V and rubbed one socked foot; and Lucy wiped the cutting board with a damp rag. "Are you hungry, Lincy?" Leni asked kindly. "There's food."

"No, thank you," he said.

"Are you sure?" Leni pressed, her concern bordering on maternal and her brow pinching cutely.

The scent of roast lamb, appetizing just moments before, turned his stomach. "I'm not hungry," he said, then, to soften the blow, "but thank you."

"Can I have his?" Lucy asked.

"No, you can't have his," Leni said petulantly. "He might want it later."

Lincoln chuckled despite himself. "It's fine," he said, "really. She can have it."

"He said I can have it," Lucy stated.

"Can I have the bread?" Lamis asked.

"I just want the meat," Lucy went on. "You can have everything else."

"No," Leni said firmly, "you guys aren't having any of it." She sat her own plate down and threw her head back with a long-suffering sigh. "You're like vultures or something." It was clear to Lincoln that her mind was made up and she would not be diverted. She covered his plate with Saran Wrap and pushed it aside with a stern finger wag at her cohorts. "This stays right here. If it goes missing, you go missing."

Lincoln blinked. Damn. She turned to him and smiled prettily. "It's there if you change your mind, Lincy."

"Thank you," Lincoln repeated and gave a gracious nod. Leni beamed like a young girl who'd just been paid a compliment by her beloved. In his periphery, Lamis and Lucy exchanged a quizzical look. Knowing Leni's stringent professionalism, he assumed that her acting this way was confounding. Lincoln shifted his weight to his good ankle and crossed his arms, Leni's Mona Lisa smile and wandering brown eyes making him feel awkward. He was acutely aware of the way his muscular chest and and biceps strained against the tux. Leni's cheeks turned slowly pink again, and, biting the corner of her bottom lip, she turned to the sink like an alcoholic removing herself from the temptation of an ever present bottle on a shelf.

Were the women of Bartertown (or some rather) really that hard up...or was he just that dashingly handsome?

He snorted cynically - he wasn't ugly but he didn't think he was particularly attractive.

"How do you like, um, working here?" Leni asked. She turned the faucet on and squirted a slug of dish soap in, then rolled her sleeves up her slender forearms. At her station by the fridge, Lamis slipped her shoe back on, removed the opposite, and rubbed her foot deeply, a pained wince flickering across her face.

That was a pleasant way to put it, Lincoln thought. Working here, like he was a new hire, fresh faced and ready to excel. Then again, what else would she say? How do you like being used as forced labor here? "It's...it's something," he allowed. Something fucking awful.

Leni cut the water and picked up a sponge. A few strands of hair hung in her eyes and she tossed her head. "It's really great," she prattled, "like, I've never been more fulfilled than I am right now."

"You're fulfilled of something," Lucy mumbled sourly, and Lincoln was shocked into almost chuckling.

"Uhhh, yeah," Leni said, "of joy."

Lamis grinned mischievously and ducked her head. "Of bullshit."

Lucy uttered a sharp laugh and Leni gasped like a woman scandalized. "I am not full of...that," she sputtered. "I love my job and I hope I have it forever."

"I'm going to take it away from you," Lucy warned.

"No you're not," Leni said.

"Yes I am. I'm going to work harder and faster, then one day, I'll be your boss."

Leni took a deep, angry breath and violently scrubbed a pan, her arm flying back and forth, the abrasive scrape of steel wool on crusted metal like nails on a chalkboard. Lucy paused in her wiping and stared at her mistress, her mouth turning up into a mocking, lipless smile. Lincoln could not see her eyes for her bangs, but he imagined they danced with mocking light. "And my first act will be to fire you."

Leni stopped what she was doing and turned to Lucy. In all the time Lincoln had known her (which was less than two hours, mind you), she had been nothing but a sunshiney cinnamon roll, but the smile she flashed Lucy now was so cold and venomous that he was taken aback. "Would you like to clean the toilets, Lucy? That can totes be arranged."

Lucy's smile dropped. "No, thank you," she said quickly.

"Then shut up."

For a moment Lucy was at a loss for words...then she returned to her task. Lamis smirked then put her shoe back on.

"Sorry you had to see that, Lincy," Leni said over her shoulder, "I have to, like, flex sometimes."

"I've seen worse," Lincoln assured her. For some reason, he was reminded of a ridiculously muscular man he encountered in a village in the Sanoran Desert. Clad in a loin cloth and boots, he approached Lincoln with a sword after Lincoln accidentally bumped into him on a crowded street. His massive, sweat sheened muscles rippled with every step he took, and, ten feet away, he stopped to flex for the spectators surrounding them. Rolling his eyes at the man's showboating, Lincoln whipped out his Magnum, shot him in the chest, and walked away. Unbeknownst to him, local etiquette dictated that disputes be resolved by hand to hand combat, and simply blowing someone away was verboten - a group of angry onlookers chased him for two miles before he gave them the slip.

Leni sat aside the pan. "I'm not mean, I swear." She said this as though convincing him of that fact was vital to her mental wellbeing. "I'm really nice."

"I know you are," Lincoln humored her. "You're...you're a very nice woman."

She giggled and Lincoln felt uncomfortable again. Seeking escape, he loaded the salad bowls onto the tray and brought them into the dining room. The chatter stopped when he came in, and Lola watched him with those smoldering eyes. He braced himself for being groped, fondled, or molested, but she restrained herself...this time.

After collecting the empty soup bowls, he returned to the kitchen. Lucy forked slices of roast onto a fleet of plates, Lamis swept, and Leni continued with the dishes. He brought the tray over and stacked the bowls next to the sink. Leni looked up and at him smiled widely. He flashed one back...to be polite. Please leave me alone. "Do you want your food yet?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine," he said.

"Okay," she said. She looked at him a moment more, then turned back to her work with a dreamy sigh. He honestly didn't know which was worse - Lola's lust or Leni's crush. The former made him feel dirty, the latter disconcerted.

When it came time to serve the main course, Lincoln loaded the plates onto the platter and took it into the dining room. His ankle howled with pain and he nearly dropped the food when an electric jolt shot into his knee.

He sat the platter on the credenza and put a plate in front of each guest; every one of them went out of their way to avoid looking at him. Lola was last; he turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. "Before you go," she said, and Lincoln inwardly groaned. Seeming to take great satisfaction in his distress, Lola tilted her head forward and touched her free hand to the back of her neck. "I'm feeling tense. Massage me."

Lincoln blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth, but no words would form. He jerked a stricken glance at the others, but they were all eating, their gazes on their plates as though any lapse in scrutiny would lead to their dinner unceremoniously disappearing. Lola dug her fingers savagely into his forearm. "Now."

Nodding to himself in resignation, he situated himself behind Lola and hovered his hands over her shoulders - how easy it would be to snap her neck. He'd done it before. Never to a woman, but to several men. He could feel the gratifying crack of her spine breaking, could hear the crunch of vertebrates shattering beyond repair. One quick twist and the bitch was done.

What would they do to him? Hanging? Beheading? Or would Lynn outright shoot him?

Though he placed little value on his own life, he realized he didn't want to find out. He laid his palms on the gentle slope of her shoulders. Heart-stopping warmth soaked through the thin material of her dress and his stomach lurched like a drunk on his way home. Lola hummed pleasure and and arched her back, her head tilting back and her silky hair lightly brushing his knuckles like the fleeting touch of a timid lover. Lincoln's breath caught and he was unnerved to find himself suddenly warm all over. Lynn looked up, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments, then she flicked her gaze to her plate.

Lincoln tentatively kneaded his thumbs into Lola's shoulder blades, and she purred like a playful kitten. "That's nice," she panted; her body undulated beneath his touch and her breathing sped up. Lincoln's heart crashed wildly and his loins stirred. With a start, he realized he was getting turned on.

Swallowing hard, he stared straight ahead and tried to focus on something other than Lola's soft body, anything other than Lola's soft body. A painting hung on the facing wall and he squinted to make it out: A landscape of a narrow river winding through a blazing autumnal forest. He was never one for art, but the scenery was nice; reminded him of Michigan during late October, when the air was crisp and scented with the twang of burning leaves. That smell always took him back to eleven; happy, carefree, skipping down the street with allowance to burn and nothing to do but enjoy being alive. He ran his hands over Lola's shoulders, tracing their outline. He brushed the bare flesh of her throat, and his dick twitched. How long had it been since he touched a woman? He tried to remember, but couldn't; a year, perhaps, or maybe more. A long time at any rate - he forgot how hot and velvety smooth they were. He flicked his eyes to Lola; her closed eyelids fluttered rapidly and her parted lips quivered as she sucked quick, urgent exhalations. Her face was crimson...the color of carnal desire.

"Ummm, Lincoln," she moaned.

The others stole awkward glances at them. Lisa shifted uncomfortably; Lana took a drink and stared into space; Lynn chewed a piece of roast to mush, then chewed some more. A woman with her blonde hair in a ponytail pursed her lips in what Lincoln took to be outrage (how simply vulgar, he could hear her saying), and another with shoulder length brown hair turned her head away and blocked out her vision with an upraised palm. He licked his dry lips and swallowed against a sandpaper throat. Lola's hips rocked slowly back and forth, her thighs rubbing lightly together, her eyes open to narrow, smutty slits and the corners of her mouth twisted up in a wicked little smile.

She was getting a thrill out of being watched.

Lincoln ran his hands up the flanks of her graceful throat, his dick swelling. She bit her bottom lip and let out a moan that Lincoln couldn't help was partly contrived. She wanted to hear, to see, to gape in shock and, perhaps, envy as she shook, panted, and trembled with the power of her orgasm. He danced his fingertips along her flesh, to her soft jawline, one teardrop earring bumping into his knuckle. He sucked a reflexive breath through his nose, and her fragrance steeped his senses, airy, sweet, and warm. She watched him from the corner of her eye, patient, expectant, her feminine features begging to be peppered with tender kisses.

This is what she wanted, he realized through the smoke of his own arousal, to drive him mad with passion until he was mindless with it….until he couldn't control himself any longer and did for her what she wanted. She would be the first domino, she figured; once he did it to her, why not do it to the rest as well? Cat's outta the bag, damage is done, might as well go for broke.

And, dear God, it was working. If this kept up much longer, he'd throw her over the table and take her in front of everyone. Bitch or not, cunt or not, it didn't matter, none of it mattered - he could close his eyes and pretend...pretend it was his wife, or someone else, pretend she was as beautiful and exciting on the inside as she was the out. He didn't have to love her to sink himself into her flesh, didn't need to like her to cum, didn't need anything but her legs wrapped around his hips and her tongue lashing his...

Exerting all the effort he could, he dug his heels in like a man being dragged toward a yawning precipice. Lola pulled him forward, her breathy moans and flexing body urging, inviting, wiggling its finger in a suggestive come hither gesture. Lincoln tried to pull back, to save himself from being yanked over the side, but his sex-starved body refused to obey his brain's frantic commands. His fingers slipped into her warm hair and a sharp nngh burst from Lola's throat.

"Your Majesty?"

Lincoln was vaguely aware of Lynn speaking, her voice a sharp report in vacuum silence. He blinked like a man coming awake from a trance. Lola trembled beneath his hands, her head thrown back to reveal her throat, her legs rubbing faster. Lincoln imagined her could smell her wild, tantalizing musk like perfume on the air, her pheromones triggering his.

"Your Majesty." Sharper, brisker, like a slap to the face. Lynn glared at them like a furious mother on finding her children playing a naughty game...a game a brother and sister ought not play…

"What?" Lola asked, annoyed.

"We should really discuss how we're going to deal with Sir. -"

"Later," Lola said dismissively.

Lynn's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Your Majesty," she said, giving the words a bitter twist, "this is very important. We have -"

"Later."

The fog in Lincoln's brain was beginning to clear. He realized his hands cupped the sides of Lola's throat, and with a start, he pulled them away, shame at his loss of control washing over him in a burning surge. After her heat, his palms were cold, and tingled with the memory of her skin. He hung them at his sides, then blotted them on his pants as if to scrub away the lingering ghost of her touch. He was normally more self-possessed than this, and that he faltered under pressure greatly distressed him.

"There isn't much of a later," Lynn argued. She leaned over the table, one hand fisted against its surface. "Lisa and I have been -"

Lola threw up her hand. "I don't want to hear this right now."

The other women were openly staring at their Queen with expressions of confusion and incredulity. "Your Majesty," a redhead said, "if I may -"

"You may not," Lola said acridly. "This is not something I wish to trouble myself with right now."

"Lynn's right," a blonde spoke up haltingly, as though terrified of going against her master...but feeling that she must anyway, "this is serious. We need to talk about how we're going to proceed. And also, you should speak to the people. They're scared and not addressing their concerns -"

Lola huffed indignantly. "They can wait," she said. "This is a very touchy subject and I'm not going to run to them with my plans. Those are secret."

"We don't have plans," Lynn stressed and sliced the air with an open handed karate chop. "You keep blowing me off. This isn't something you can ignore. What are we going to do? If we fight, we lose, if we surrender, we'll be slaves." Her eyes met Lincoln's, and he nodded his agreement. "Like you're doing to him," she added.

Lola started. "I have my reasons," she said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice.

Lana opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then closed it again. Her brow was furrowed and her lips pursed in irritation. Lincoln got the impression that whatever she meant to say, it would not have been kind to her Queen.

"It is a bit much," Lisa remarked.

Emboldened by Lynn and Lisa's dissent, everyone else murmured their concurrence. For some reason, Lincoln felt more ashamed than he ought to, as though he'd played an active and willing part in his own enslavement….and in making an obscene and unacceptable display. "You had him in a dog collar," Lynn said accusingly. "That's not right. It's sick. You're more worried about getting fucked that you are protecting Bartertown."

Flashing, Lola slammed an open palm against the table; plates rattled, glasses clinked, and silverware jangled. A woman with black hair jumped and everyone but Lana and Lynn tensed. "That's enough," Lola spat. "I will not be talked to this way by a glorified mall cop."

Lynn's face darkened, and Lincoln was certain she would spring over the table and grab Lola by the throat.

Splaying her hands on the edge of the table, Lola pushed out of her chair in a half crouch like a big cat preparing to pounce on its prey. "I have been keeping this community together, single-handedly, for almost two years. I know what I'm doing, Lynn."

"I'd hardly say you've done it -" Lisa started.

Lola whipped her head around. "Shut the fuck up."

Lisa snapped her mouth closed and looked away, her lips pressing tightly together.

Panting now, her eyes wide and her teeth bared, Lola looked around the table, every gaze falling away from her red, clutched face. "All of you are nothing more than help," she hissed. "I am the one in charge. I make the decisions. I give the orders. Do you have any idea how much stress I am under right now? This is my kingdom on the line. My -"

"It's our lives, Lola," Lynn growled. "You're stuck in your little fairy princess fantasy while the rest of us are scrambling to -"

"GET OUT!" Lola roared. She jabbed her finger at the door with such force that strands of her hair came loose and hung in her face, lending her a mad, overwrought appearance. "GET OUT! YOU'RE FIRED! GO!"

Lynn blinked, then clenched her jaw. She shoved roughly away from the table, the legs of her chair scraping the floor, and jumped to her feet. Lola stood to her full height and they locked eyes like two dueling rams in a snowy glen. "Get. Out. Of my. Sight." Lola's voice was low and dripping with menace; Lincoln had met rattlesnakes less poisonous...cactus less stinging.

The security chief looked the Queen up and down, then, with a disgusted tsk, spun on her heels and stalked out, the slamming of the door behind her deafeningly. No one moved save for Lola; she blew a puff of air that rustled her bangs, then brushed them from her eyes. "Lana," she said, "you're in charge now."

Lana looked up at the queen and seemed to think for a second before shaking her head. "No, I'm not," she said. She pulled a napkin from shirt collar, balled it up, and threw it to the table. "I quit."

"What?" Lola demanded.

By way of answering, Lana got up from the table, shot Lola a dirty look, and walked away. Lola's jaw dropped, then clinched. "Fine. Would anyone else like to go?"

Lincoln expected the women to all cower like scolded dogs, and was thus surprised when, one by one, they all stood, each one glowering at the queen. Lola's curled over her teeth and her nails dug into the table. "Go on then," she said.

They filtered out through the door in a line.

All but Lisa, who sat where she was, her lips flattened thoughtfully. "As the only physician in Bartertown, I cannot, in good conscious, resign my post. However, I, too, believe -"

"Get the fuck out," Lola said.

"Very well." Lisa got to her feet, pushed in her chair, and left, following the others. Lincoln watched her go, unsure how to feel. Should he take pleasure in the seeing Lola's cabinet turn against her? Horror that the government of Bartertown was crumbling, and its leader in denial of the danger bearing down on her people? He thought back to all the children he'd seen since Lynn and Lana escorted him from the infirmary that afternoon - each and every one of them was in harm's way, and instead of doing something about it, Lola was refusing to even talk about it.

Sighing deeply, she flopped back into her chair and took a deep breath; her hair fell back across her eyes and her hands gripped the arms as if to prevent her being sucked away. The color ran away from her face, leaving it ashen, and her eyes darted worriedly to her lap.

Lincoln recalled, vaguely, the story of a Roman emperor who happily fiddled as Rome burned down around him. People, livestock, and buildings were consumed, scorched, reduced to cinders, and he yet he played on like he didn't have a care in the world. That was Lola. Her "kingdom" was in the cross hairs and she chose to completely ignore that fact, as though it were an unsightly pimple that would go away on its own. Maybe she didn't understand how serious this was...maybe she didn't give a shit...Lincoln didn't know, but she needed to be brought back to reality.

"Lola," he started, but she cut him off.

"Collect the dishes and go."

Her voice was hollow, drained, as though the confrontation had sapped all of her energy, leaving her empty. He made no move to leave, and she waved him on. "Just go."

A rush of anger bubbled up in his chest, and he didn't bite it back. "You might not want to hear it, but you have less than two days until he comes back. You need -"

"You don't think I know that?" she barked. "What do you want me to do, Lincoln? We're fucked either way." Her voice hitched on the last word, suddenly thick as if with coming tears. She swiped her bangs from her eyes again, and for the first time, Lincoln noticed that her hand was trembling with nerves. She opened her mouth to go on, but a sharp, humorless laugh escaped instead. "What can I do?" she asked again. Her eyes shimmered wetly, and deep in his chest, Lincoln's heart twinged in sympathy. "No matter what, we lose." She held her hand to the side of her head and sniffled.

She was right. To an extent. No matter what course Bartertown charted going forward, the sailing would be rough. That didn't mean they couldn't weather the storm. Especially if they made a stand. "That's not true," he said, surprised by the tenderness in his voice. "If you roll over and let him goosestep in here, yeah, you're fucked, but if you fight -"

"With what?" Lola asked. "He has three people to every one of ours. We won't win. Lincoln. We won't."

"You don't -"

Covering her eyes, she held up a forestalling hand. "Just go away," she said, "please. I don't want to talk about this."

Lincoln let out a frustrated breath, but didn't push her any more. Instead, he picked up the dishes and took them back to the kitchen.


	6. Daybreak

**Guest: Carol was Clyde's wife and they had a daughter together.**

**Gallifrey denizen: Lola is more the "queen" type than Lori. I also felt like doing something different and not trying to follow canon.**

**That Engineer: I've seen the original three Mad Max Movies (Mad Max; The Road Warrior; Beyond Thunderdome), just not Fury Road.**

* * *

Sir. Ginormous believed in two things above all: Discipline and self-restraint.

The old world lacked those two basic principles, and was a cesspool because of it. People were gluttonous and hedonistic, carelessly indulging their basest desires to the detriment of society while claiming to be free when, in actuality, they were slaves to themselves. Human beings, by their very nature, need strong leadership. Every democracy to ever exist, every wayward republic, devolved into chaos at one point or another. Sometimes it took centuries, sometimes only decades, but it always happened sooner or later. In the last days, America, that failed Grand Experiment, was a nation of avataristic and self-serving pigs whose conflicting interests brought them into constant conflict with each other. Give two men total freedom and put them in a room together, and eventually. one will transgress against the other, then cry that it is his right to do so. Put ten more in, then a hundred, then a million - chaos will break out unless someone keeps order.

The peace and prosperity of a nation directly corresponds to the strength of its government. The weaker the government, the weaker the state...the stronger the government, the stronger the state. How can you have true peace when every man is given total domain of himself? How can you expect to prosper when people and corporations are allowed to dictate the economy? You cannot. You can only have pandemonium. People, he had learned, were as children, and the government - whatever form it might take - must act as parent. It must guide and educate its subjects, it must also make the right choices for them, as they were not capable of doing it themselves.

Men such as himself, the Strong, Bold, and Wise, were put on this earth by God to take power and _lead_. They should always hold themselves to a higher standard because the proper way to lead is by example. Christ did it. George Washington did it. Benito Mussolini did it. They set themselves up as the paragon of their respective virtues and stood firm, inspiring their people to follow. Good leaders, he always said, command respect while bad leaders demand it. He was one of the former - he showed his people every day how to conduct themselves, and inspired them to be like him.

Even so, he was a man, and men have weaknesses, emotions, flaws, and needs. Lying in bed and staring up at the canvas ceiling of his tent, bathed in the orangish glow of a kerosene lamp on the nightstand, the hounds of loneliness brayed at the gates of his soul. He detested feeling this way, but he could not stop it anymore than a terminal man can stop the cancer ravaging his body. There was one thing that would ease it, but he refused to give in. He was strong...he was self-possessed...he would suffer through and come out the other side like a man, not run to salvation like a coward. The spineless complain and seek absolution, the robust endure in stoic silence - you know every time the first so much as stubs his toe, but you will never know that the second is in agony, for he will not show it. The first is weak, the second is strong.

And Sir. Ginormous was strong. He had to be...he had Chandler to worry about.

Slipping one hand under his head, he drew a deep breath and let it out in an even rush. Life, as the old saying goes, is not fair, and he of all people had discovered that to be true. Up until the Collapse, he believed the opposite to be true - he had a good job, a nice home, and a beautiful family. For him, it was plenty fair. Then the war broke out and in the course of a single day, everything changed. It was okay, though, he had Carol and Cryandia.

Until he didn't.

They were in a caravan travelling along 1-15 west of Barstow with twenty other refugees en route to Rockbed Air Force Base, spurred on by hope, desperation, and whispered rumors of help. They were dirty, tired, and hungry, lost souls on a death march through the desert, their future uncertain but brighter out here than it was in the city. Cryandia was sick with fever, and he carried her in his arms as though she were a baby - she'd lost so much weight over the previous few months, even though he gave every scrap of food to her and Carol without taking any for himself. Helplessly watching his wife and daughter wither was the hardest thing he had ever done; they were suffering and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But things got worse.

Much worse.

Thirty miles from Barstow, the highway dipped between two steep hillsides dotted with scrub, sage, and mesquite. A shot rang out, and suddenly, raiders were upon them. They made the men lay on the hot pavement and the women…

A chill ran through him at the memory of Carol's sobs...first of horror, then of pain. Worse were her pleas. _Don't hurt my baby! Please, God, don't! _They echoed in his ears to this day...but only when he was falling asleep or coming awake. In dreams, he relieved the stomach rending horror, the agony of listening to his baby being fucked, the mind-numbing sense of _powerlessness_. He believed once in law and order, in society, but that, and other things, taught him that it was all an illusion - the strong are always in control, whether you see their hand in things or not. They can do whatever they want, whenever they want, and unless you are strong too, there is nothing you can do about it. Survival of the fittest, they said, but he didn't believe them. He clung to empty notions of equality, respect, and social justice, like a man grasping at smoke. The day his wife and daughter were raped and murdered on the side of the road, and he himself was doused in gasoline and set ablaze, was the day he woke to the cold, grim realities of life. They are not pretty, they were not comforting, they were not truths he reveled in, but they were fact, and as with any fact, you accept it or retreat into skybound castles. In the old world, he could afford that luxury, but not now, not with things the way they were.

Civilization, Sir. Ginormous came to learn, is a lie old mothers use to lull their babes to sleep at night, a thin sheet of ice crusted o'er a winter pond. It may look sturdy, it may even support you for a while, but before long, it will crack...and you _will _fall through. Unless you have the physical, mental, and emotional strength to pull yourself out again, you will drown. He almost did, but he survived...and decided never again.

A snap of canvas drew his attention to the flap. Chandler, clad in camo pants and an olive green tank top, was there, the low flicker of light casting shadows across his rough face. His gaze rested on the floor, and in his posture, Ginormous read shame, like a young boy who'd done something wrong. Ginormous sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was not wearing his mask, but that was alright - Chandler had seen the melted remnants of his face before, and he, in turn, had seen the scarred, seeping wounds in the boy's heart. Chandler was the only man or woman alive he could bear to show his humiliation to, for upon his features were the telltale signs of weakness, each blister and jagged gash a testament to that day he lay immobilized on the ground and let someone hurt him and his family. The others would not know what they were seeing if they looked upon it, but _he _knew, and that was enough. Allowing Chandler to see was a show of his love and trust, feelings forged over long, taxing years.

"Are you alright?" Ginormous asked. His voice, cleansed by fire, was low and toneless, carrying none of the paternal worry he felt.

Chandler's lips quivered and he sucked them into his mouth; water shimmered in his eyes and fissures appeared in his steely facade, breaking Ginormous's heart. The leader did not press him, did not coax him; rather, he let him speak at his own pace. When he did, it was with a vulnerable hitch. "I, uh...I-I had the dream again," he admitted, confirming Girnormous's suspicions.

"Come here," the older man said and beckoned invitingly with one burned hand. Chandler hesitated as he always did, making one last effort, perhaps, to handle it on his own, then broke and came forward, feet shuffling with childlike petulence. He sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, and Ginormous put his arm around his broad shoulders. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Chandler vehemently shook his head. "No," he said quickly.

"Are you sure?" Ginormous asked.

Chandler didn't reply; instead, he stared down at his boots with wide, trauma-scoured eyes. His Adam's Apple bobbed and tears tracked down his cheeks, leaving whitish trails in the dust coating his skin. Ginormous waited patiently. Chandler always did this - put on a brave front and made a show of hanging on...then let go when he couldn't anymore. "I could _feel _it," he said in a low, broken whisper, the tears coming faster down, splattering the dirt in fat droplets. "He cut my throat a-a-and I died...but I still felt it."

A tight frown touched Ginormous's lips and he ran his hand comfortingly up and down Chandler arm, offering him assurance and support. Six years ago, as Ginormous, then Clyde, lay on the ground listening to his wife being raped and strangled, Chandler lay prone on the pavement, a knife to his throat and a man thrusting into him. He was twelve, lanky, and already wounded by the loss of his parents and sister in one of the many viral outbreaks that plagued the cities in the first year following the war. He was in the care of a minister name Parker, who was stabbed repeatedly in the back by one of the raiders, and up until the fire died and they were alone together among the dead, Ginormous took no notice of him. He was another dazed face in a sea of dazed faces, another survivor likely to die in the coming months. Ginormous had his own child to worry about...then they had only each other, one burned and shaking, the other curled into a ball and sobbing uncontrollably.

The memory of Chandler's violation saddened Ginormous, and a single tear formed in the corner of one faded brown eye. Chandler's face crinkled and his lips sputtered as he tried to go on. He clamped his lids shut and broke down, his shoulders shaking and miserable whimpers bursts from his working throat. Ginormous pressed the boy's damp face to his chest and blinked against the swelling deluge in his own eyes. "Shhhh," he whispered, "it's all over. You're safe now."

Chandler wept harder, perhaps recognizing the lie. No one was safe at any time, not even the strong.

"It's okay," Ginormous said, staring intently at the wind-stirred flap of the tent, gazing through it, over the desert, beyond the night, and at Bartertown in the distance. He could not see it from here, but it was there. "One day, this will all be a bad memory. We'll be safe...and we'll rebuild. We will _heal_."

"One way or another," he vowed.

* * *

Lincoln was up before dawn, a dream he could not fully remember lingering in the chambers of his skull like a distant scream. He sat on the edge of his bed in the palace's staff wing, a narrow corridors of cramped rooms off the main hall, and held his fevered head in his hands. He was naked save for boxers, and warm sweat coated his aching body. There was air conditioning in the throne room, but none here, go figure - _the help _didn't need it. He ran his fingers through his damp hair and tried to recall the dream; fragments loomed out of the darkness, disjointed snapshots of death and ruin….bomb blasted children scattered in pieces across the hardpan, dead eyes staring sightlessly into the heavens, as if seeing the Beyond and finding it hell, fire and rubble, thick black smoke belching into the air.

His daughter.

A shudder ran through him and he took a deep breath, stagnant air hot in his lungs. He looked up at the narrow window. Soft purple light pressed faintly against the dirty pane. He got up and went to it, his hand coming to rest on the casement. Outside, guards in white walked endlessly around the building, automatic rifles slung over their backs. The fence was ahead, and he could just make out someone else moving along the catwalk. It stood to reason that security would be tighter around the palace, but he wondered anyway if there were extra because of him. The window wasn't very wide, three feet across if that, but he could wiggle out. He was surprised that Lola put him in here rather than sending him to spend the night in whatever passed for a jail in Bartertown.

_It's not much, but it's really cozy, _Leni told him the night before as she unlocked the handle, _I _love _my room. It's, like, a hidey hole. _She pushed the door open, and a bar of light fell across the neatly made bed. A dresser stood against one wall, and a desk with an attendant chair against the other. Both were simple pine, faded with age and scuffed with use. A closet no bigger than a phone booth opened off the west wall, and a golden pot sat under the window. _That's for peeing, _Leni said with a blush, _this wing doesn't have running water. If you have to poop, you...actually, nevermind. _Lincoln raised a quizzical brow and she flashed a sheepish smile. _Queen Lola wants me to lock you in for...for the night_. _I hope that's okay. _

He almost laughed. _It's fine, _he assured her even though it wasn't. He expected as much, though, and was prepared for it.

_Good, _she chirped and bit her lower lip. Beginning to twist slightly from side to side like a girl, her long blonde hair rustling, she flicked her eyes up and down his body, clad now in the jeans and white T-shirt he wore when he was ambushed. Her brown, doe-like eyes sparkled like crystals in the sun, and sly little smile sent Lincoln's heartbeat racing. _Is that all? _She asked, her voice lifting in the hope that he'd ask her to stay...and maybe take off her clothes.

Lincoln nodded jerkily. _That's all, thank you._

The look of disappointment in her eyes was quick and shallow, but Lincoln saw it nevertheless, and after she was gone, he felt something in his chest that gave him pause. Regret. Not for turning her away (that came later), but for hurting her feelings. Sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight and the springs creaking rustily, he hung his head in defeat and uttered a croak that was meant to be a laugh. Feelings. Since when did he care about _feelings? _He killed more men than he could count, stole things that weren't his, and never once did he stop to wonder if he'd offended or upset someone. Why would he? Only the weak let their _feelings _dictate them, and only enablers let the feelings of _others _dictate _them. _Then again, Leni _was _a sweet girl...even if she did keep looking at him as though he were a piece of meat. On the other hand, Lola was not, yet he felt something for her as well, something that he rarely experienced anymore: Pity. He pitied the Queen of Bartertown. She didn't deserve it, had done nothing to earn it, but he pitied her regardless. The last time he saw her, slumped in a chair at the head of an empty table like a damned soul presiding over a dinner party of the dead, she looked utterly lost.

Alone in his room, warm moonlight streaming through the window and making strange expressionist shapes across the floor, he allowed her a measure of solicitude. Being in charge of a group - especially one as large as Bartertown - must weigh heavy; the responsibility for the lives and wellbeing of many people was something Lincoln could not imagine for himself. Knowing that men, women, and children lived or died by his actions would paralyze him with indecision. Lola might be a lot of things, but her people appeared healthy, relatively happy, and did not exude the dark and quiet fear one would expect from a repressed populace - she was holding Bartertown together, and doing a decent enough job of it too. That's to say, Lola Loud was far better at being a leader than him. The daily stress had to take its toll...then add to it the threat of invasion and domination...the foreboding of making the wrong decision and leading your people to ruin no matter _what _course of action you take...she must be eaten alive with worry.

His charity ended there, though. She needed to meet this matter head on, but instead she was putting it off because it was unpleasant. He didn't know much about leadership, but he knew in his heart that that's not how a leader is supposed to act. No matter how hard or grim things are, a leader steps up to the plate and handles them. Lola lacked the strength and courage to do that...she was an ostrich with its head buried in the sand, too afraid to face the predators circling it and hoping that if she did not pay them attention, they would go away. Maybe she was a passable peacetime leader, but she was _not _an acceptable wartime leader.

Lynn, on the other hand…

Shoving thoughts of Bartertown and Sir. Ginormous aside, he stretched out on top of the covers and struggled to sleep, but wound up staring at the ceiling instead. His mind drifted from one thing to another like a feather pushed on the wind - the ambush, cleaning the stables, licking water from a bowl, the feeling of Lola's body under his hands, the gentle curve of Leni's blushing face. He lingered on the latter, recalling her eyes, her lips, and the slope of her neck. His stomach tingled and he suddenly wished he hadn't sent her away, wished he'd invited her to stay. He saw himself ghosting his hands over her quaking body, reveling in her warmth, undressing her slowly, one article of clothing at a time until there was nothing left...nothing to cover her supple young body but his hungry kisses.

He rolled restlessly to his side and crossed his arms, hating that he was hard and burning with fever, but unable to keep the visions away: Her on top of him him, bending to fuse their lips as she rocked urgently back and forth; him on top now, their fingers twined and their tongues making desperate love to each other, each one of his thrusts touching the opening of her womb and knocking a breathy grunt from her mouth to his. Finally, he heaved an agitated sigh, got up, and paced the room until the fire cooled. After that, he was able to fall into a light, fitful sleep.

Presently, staring out the window at daybreak, he went back to the thoughts of the night before. Lola needed to get her shit together and lead these people or else they'd wind up slaves to Ginormous and his brownshirts.

And the children would die.

His stomach knotted and the acrid taste of bile flooded the back of his throat. He turned away from the glass and started to pace again like a caged animal. He could leave...put it all behind him...forget this place and these people even existed. Only he couldn't...he'd hear the screams of the children in his sleep for the rest of his life...see the pained accusation in their eyes the way he saw it in his own little girl's eyes when she died. He'd carry the stain of their deaths on his soul always, like he carried the stain of hers.

He couldn't save her...but he could save them.

And that, he decided, was exactly what he was going to do.

He was sitting at the desk and thinking when a key rattled in the lock fifteen minutes later. Leni pushed the door open and came in, clad in her customary blue dress and white apron. He could not bring himself to look her in the face...not after the things he thought last night. It wasn't the sex that disturbed him...sex is nothing...but rather the intimacy. He did not simply rut into her, he held her hand and looked into her eyes, bore his heart, soul, and everything to her...a woman he barely knew, like a clingy boy desperate for love.

"Morning, Lincy," she sang brightly and snapped the overhead light on; Lincoln winced at the illumination and lifted his hand to shield his eyes. He was still unused to such luxuries as electricity and had completely forgotten the power was even on.

"Good morning," he said and glanced at the window. Thin orange light caressed the pane like an insistent phantom seeking entrance. He judged it to be just quarter after six. "Is it time to start our day?"

Leni nodded deeply. "Yep."

He expected her to go on. When she didn't, he pulled his shoes and socks on. He was aware of her watching him, and the urge to take her swept him like a stiff wind. His muscles tensed and his stomach flipped - for a moment, he was certain he was going to do it. Why not? She obviously wanted it, and God knows he was closer to that clingy, intimacy-starved boy than he cared to admit. There was no reason to fight it - whatever happened between them would have nothing to do with Lola or her crazed baby-making scheme.

Only there _was _a reason. He didn't _love _her. He could fantasize about holding her hand all he wanted, but the deep connection he felt in his daydream, the blissful rush of satisfaction and fulfillment, would elude him as it always did. He could fuck her and derive _some _enjoyment from it, but being with her would leave him with the same emptiness that being with any woman but his wife did.

He actually _loved _his wife.

She was dead and gone, though. He was over it and assumed that one day, he might meet another woman he could love, but so far he hadn't. Leni was attractive and good natured, but he did not love her...and probably wouldn't even if he saw and worked with her everyday for the next twenty years. From what he had seen of her, she was simple and childlike, and while those traits _were _strangely endearing, he didn't think they were traits with which he could fall in love. Enjoy, yes, love platonically, maybe, but not _love_. He could love her physically, but not what's the point of loving someone with your body and not your heart? He was lonely, and the night before, the idea of having her with him...a body to hold and lips to kiss (whether he loved her or not), was greatly appealing, but he'd been there before - the rush of intimacy was temporary and hollow, like a drug addict catching a fleeting high. The warm, fuzzy goodness always drained away, and that junkie came back to earth - dirty and stretched out in an alleyway, life the same bleak hell it was before.

That brief high served only to make the world even darker and colder on coming down.

Fuck _that._

Done, he got to his feet, and Leni flashed a warm smile. "Ready, Lincy?"

Lincoln couldn't suppress a smile at her nickname for him. Cute, he thought, it was cute. "I'm ready," he said.

"Good," she said, "let's go."

She turned and went out into the hall, and Lincoln followed. A simple red carpet lined the narrow floor and brass fixtures spaced every six feet apart bathed the rough, unfinished walls in a murky glow. To the right, the hall terminated at a store closet where, Leni told him last night, surplus cleaning supplies and _other stuffs _were kept. Yes, she said _stuffs _rather than _stuff. _She did it to be cute, and while Lincoln would usually sneer, he found it oddly and inexplicably charming coming from her. To the right, it opened onto the main hall; Leni called it a _foy-ay_, which, he assumed, was fancyspeak for _foyer_. Deep, early morning silence held court, and as they made their way toward the kitchen, Leni in the lead and walking with her shoulders thrown proudly and confidently back, Lincoln listened for the telltale sounds of life, but heard only nothing. "Is anyone else up?" he asked.

"Nope," she said, "just us. I'm always the first one awake. I go to bed _super _early." She waved her hand and laughed. "There are guards but no one else. Lamis doesn't live here, she lives with Lester and their baby." She twisted her head around. "Did I tell you they have a baby? His name is Lexington and he's _really _cute."

Did she tell him? Lola did (or was it Lynn?), but he couldn't recall Leni bringing it up. "No," he said, humoring her, "you didn't."

In the front hall, a guard with her curly brown hair in a ponytail stood with her back to the big double doors leading to the veranda, and another made her way up the staircase. The first held an AR-15 across her chest, the barrel pointed at the ground, and the second an Uzi on a strap that looped around her neck. "Morning, Lali," Leni chiruped as she and Lincoln passed. The door guard nodded briskly, the stony expression on her face unchanging. Strange name, Lincoln thought, then again, if Lola forced every single person in Bartertown to take an L name like her, they must _really _be scraping the bottom of the barrel by this point - there are only so many names that start with any given letter, and if you have fifty people employing the same naming convention, you're going to get into nonsense territory fairly fast. _Hi, my name's Lotto and this is my little brother Lopo, pleased to meet you. _

"Morning, Layna," Leni called.

The second guard reached the top of the stairs and aboutfaced, then nodded. "How many guards are here?" Lincoln asked, genuinely curious. The previous day, he saw three inside and at least a half dozen patrolling the grounds, not to mention the ones on the catwalk edging the wall behind the palace.

Leni scrunched her lips. "Ummm, I don't know," she said. "There are usually more but I think they're doing other stuff." The ever present light in her eyes flickered like a candle in cold wind, and the glow of her face dimmed a couple watts. She looked around as if for hidden spies (lingering on a potted desert fern that looked particularly suspicious), then leaned in and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because of the bad people." Her pupils dilated on the word _bad, _and she unconsciously drew it out like a mother cooing to her babe. _Baaaad. _

That made sense - he figured security would be heightened around the palace, but, then again, the guards would do more good on the wall than in here. Ginormous said he would return in two days but knowing his type, Lincoln would not be surprised if he and his men came back sooner. That'd be a good tactic, come to think of it; lul Bartertown into a false sense of security then strike when they least expect it - throw the people into disarray and force a knee jerk reaction. If Lynn was right about him having police or military experience, he'd know that.

Something else occurred to him. "How many people are in Bartertown?" he asked. "Total."

Leni rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "Ummmm, I _think _it's, like, one-twenty. I don't really know. I'm the head maid, Lincy, not the census taker person."

"Fair enough."

At the kitchen, Leni opened the door and snapped the light on, harsh white brilliance burning away the darkness like nuclear-powered judgement day. "Have you ever made breakfast before, Lincy?" she asked as she crossed to the fridge.

"I have," Lincoln confirmed.

Leni opened the door and took out a plastic container filled with eggs, then a bundle of brown butcher paper that crinkled in her grasp. Turning, she bumped the door closed with her butt, carried the stuff to the counter, and sat it down. She looked at him and cocked her head. "Have you ever poached eggs?"

He started to reply, but stopped when he realized he didn't know. To be honest, he wasn't sure what the hell a poached egg even _was_. All he knew was that rich people ate them, so they were probably awful. Hey, they eat snails and fish eggs, what _else _was he supposed to assume? "No," he finally said, "I have not."

Leni batted her eyelashes. "Would you like to learn?"

Lincoln made a show of thinking even though he already knew he did _not. _What good would knowing how to poach an egg do him in the long run? Learning wouldn't hurt, but if given a choice, he'd rather learn something more practical, like how to mend a broken leg. _That _would come in handy, legs break all the time. He seriously doubted he would ever need or want to poach another egg after today. On the other hand...why the hell not? It wasn't like people were crowding around to teach him new and valuable skills. "Sure," he relented.

"Great," Leni said. "Can you get the cast iron skillet from the pantry, please? Not the real big one, the little one." She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart for emphasis.

Without another word, Lincoln turned and went to the pantry. The cookware was on a high shelf, all neatly stacked and organized. He scanned the selection, found what he took to be the _little _skillet, and grabbed it. Leni stood at the sink, waiting. He brought it over and she pointed at the faucet. "Fill it _almost _to the tippy top."

Lincoln turned on the water, held the skillet under the flow, then took it away when it was nearly full. "Now follow me."

At the stove, Leni turned one of the burners on; gas hissed and the flame caught with a _whump. _She stepped back and looked at him, and taking that as his cue, he sat the skillet on. "Good," she said. She turned, crossed to a cabinet, and took out a bowl. "Lola _loves _poached eggs, and she says mine are the best," she prattled as she cracked an egg into the bowl. "That makes me _really _proud because, like, she's probably had the best poached eggs in the whole world." She said the last two words with the breathless wonder of a small girl.

Lincoln leaned easily against the counter and crossed his arms. "Do you like to cook?"

She picked up a bottle of vinegar and twisted off the cap as she returned to the pan. "I _love _to cook," she said, "and bake too." Holding the bottle over the water, she carefully tilted it, one eye squinting closed and her tongue plasteing to her upper lip, lending her the appearance of a sniper lining up the perfect shot on a moving target, calculating distance, trajectory, and wind speed to ensure her bullet flew straight and true. A single drop fell from the lip and splashed in. "I used to do it all the time with my grandmother." She screwed the cap on and sat it aside. "It was our thing." A wistful smile played at the corner of her lips and she drew a deep, nostalgic sigh.

From those two things alone, Lincoln surmised that she was close with her grandmother. It stood to reason that the old woman was probably dead, but he could not ascertain whether or not her death was particularly traumatic to Leni, so couldn't say if she died before The Collapse or after. He should say something, offer her some word of condolence or encouragement or _something, _but he had none to give, and if he had, they would invariably feel forced and insincere on his lips.

The water was boiling now. "Come here, Lincy," she said, "this is how you poach an egg."

Lincoln obediently pushed away from the sink and went to her, his traitorous eyes tracing the lines of her graceful neck, the spill of her golden hair grazing her pale, creamy flesh. He wrenched them away and sent them to the floor, but standing next to her, he was hyper aware of how close she was, her body heat and her fragrant scent, like summer rain, caressing him like the fleeting fingertips of a timid lover. She turned her head and looked up at him, a slow grin widening to a beaming smile. She was shorter than him by roughly a foot; if he held her in his arms, he'd just be able to rest his chin on the top of her head. And if she were to pull away and tilt her head back the way she was now, he could tilt his forward and taste her lips…

His throat constricted, and he focused on the pan. "Ready to learn," he said evenly.

She picked up the bowl. "First, you stir the water to get it all whirlpooly." She took a fork from a drawer and gently whipped the water. "This helps the white wrap around the yolk," she explained. Next, she picked up the bowl and turned it over, dropping the egg into the center of the spinning vortex. Lincoln watched in earnest fascination, straining to block out the lovely creature beside him, so near he could almost _feel _her skin against his. "Now," she said, and looked up at him again, "we wait."

Their eyes met, and Lincoln's heart thundered. His hand twitched with the urge to cup her cheek, his fingers jittery, crying out to be plunged into her hair. Heat spread across his face, and he forced himself to look away. This was starting to get on his goddamn nerves. He knew in his heart that if he sought love and understanding with Leni, he would not find it. He would not find it with Lola or anyone. Maybe someone existed with whom he _could _find it, but why would he want to? Life is short, dark, and brutal; he loved a woman once, and a little girl, and losing them was like having his heart ripped from his chest, crushed to pulp, and flung into the dirt. If he found someone else, he risked having it happen again...risked watching the things he cherished most taken away from him…

He couldn't. He could do a lot, _endure _a lot, but not that. Never again. Human begins yearn for love and companionship, and he was no different; he _wanted _someone to love, just like everybody else does, but he could not open himself to possibly feeling the greatest pain again. _That _was why he couldn't love Leni or anyone else. He could soothe himself with any number of excuses - lack of commonality, etc - but the fact was simply this: He was scared.

Just scared.

Leni watched him intently, her brow pinched cutely and her smile unwavering. He wished she'd look at something else. She opened her mouth, then gasped. "Sugar, honey, ice tea," she exclaimed and stomped her foot. "I forgot the bacon." She looked at the butcher paper. "Could…?"

Already inferring what she wanted, Lincoln nodded, grateful for the distraction. "On it."

Five minutes later, he laid three fat. white strips of bacon on in a pan. Across the kitchen, Leni mixed hollandaise sauce in a plastic pitcher. She hummed a beautiful melody as she whipped the thick yellow concoction with a wooden spoon; Lincoln listened, enchanted, and cocked his head in thought. He knew the song, but could not place it. He picked up a fork and turned the bacon over - Lola liked it _soft, limp, and lightly browned_. In other words, practically raw. It popped and sizzled, and the aroma drifted into his nose, making his stomach rumble. Pork, beef, and chicken were hard to come by in the wastelands as not many settlements kept much livestock; what little meat _was_ available was exorbitantly expensive. He began to salivate, and glanced over his shoulder. Leni wouldn't notice if he -

"Don't even think about it, Lincy," she said without turning.

Lincoln blinked. "About what?" he asked.

"Stealing bacon," she said serenely.

Wow, she's good. That's exactly what he was thinking about. "I wasn't thinking about that," he said.

"Yes you were," she said, "you're a bad boy."

He flushed.

When the bacon was done, he transferred it to a plate. Leni came over, sat the egg on, and drizzled it with hollandaise in a neat zigzag pattern. Setting the pitcher on the counter, she went to the pantry, rummaged around, and came back with something pinched between her thumb and forefinger. She sat it on the edge of the plate - a tiny green piece of fern leaf. "Bam," she giggled.

Lincoln nodded appreciatively. "It looks really nice," he said truthfully.

"Thank you," she said. "Now, we take it to Queen Lola."

She loaded the plate, a glass of orange juice, and a fake flower in a vase onto a tray and started for the hallway. "Come on, Lincy," she said.

In the foyer, a new guard stood in front of the door, this one black with dreadlocks and a katana across her back; she held an MP5 and stared straight ahead with all the emotion of a brick wall. The second floor hallway was far grander than Lincoln imagined: Plush red carpet, oak paneled walls, majestic paintings of stern faced men and chilly looking women long dead, their eyes seeming to track your movements with haughty disapproval. The air up here was cooler than it was on the first floor, and when they passed a grate vent, a cold draft blew against Lincoln's legs. Jesus, this place had it all; electricity, air conditioning, a functioning kitchen. The last time he saw this kind of opulence was before the war. Those things may have been commonplace years ago, but today they were so rare that Lincoln's head spun in amazement.

Lola's door stood at the very end of the hall, closed and forbidding. "Can you knock, Linc?" Leni asked amiably. "My hands are _kind _of full."

Lincoln ducked around her, lifted his hand, and rapped lightly on the wood. "Come in," Lola called out instantly, surprising him. He expected her to still be asleep, reveling in the lack of duty that comes with unconsciousness.

Turning the knob, he went in, Leni coming behind.

The Queen's chambers were as Lincoln expected to find them - four poster canopy bed, a sprawling vanity with a giant mirror against one wall, a stone fireplace, thick drapes covering the windows and emitting the merest suggestion of morning light, and tasteful modern furniture - black leather sofa and glass coffee table facing a sleek plasma screen TV hung from one ecru wall.

Lola sat up in bed, pillows stuffed between her back and the headboard; she wore a rumpled white robe and her hair down, long golden strands surprisingly disheveled, She shot him a quick, timorous glance, then hurriedly looked away as if in shame at her state. She crossed her arms over her chest, then nervously raked her fingers through her hair. "Good morning," Leni cried happily. She crossed the room and sat the tray on the nightstand. She went around the front of the bed and drew the curtains, letting in the rays of the vermillion sun. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Lola said, an unmistakably sullen note in her voice. Even from his station by the door, Lincoln could tell that that was a lie: Dark bags hung beneath her bloodshot eyes, and her skin, a healthy and winsome shade of of pink the previous afternoon, was today sickly and sallow gray, doughy and plain without makeup.

"Good," Leni said oblivious to her master's condition. She started to pick up the tray but Lola shook her head.

"I'm not hungry," she croaked.

Leni frowned. "Why not?" Maybe Lincoln misjudged, but she sounded hurt. She seemed to notice Lola's appearance for the first time, and her body tensed. "You look sick. Are you sick?" She worriedly pressed her palm to Lola's forehead, and the Queen wrenched violently away.

"I'm fine," she spat and threw up her hand, "I just don't want it, okay?" A stray shaft of sunlight caught her face, and for a ephemeral moment, she looked much older than her twenty-one years, as though she had aged two decades in the night. Her eyes flickered to Lincoln, and their gazes held.

He saw something.

Fear.

She was thoroughly afraid, had probably been awake all night, the gravity of Bartertown's predicament sinking slowly in until she was steeped in anxiety. He realized that he that he was somewhat unfair in his quick condemnation of her. No more than four or five hours separated the coming of Ginormous and the dinner party where she disregarded and dismissed the concerns of her cabinet. That was more than enough time for him, and Lynn, to fully grasp the situation, but some people need longer. In this world, those people are likely to die - you have to be not only strong but quick-witted and able to think on your feet. Delayed reaction is a flaw, he believed, but more an infliction than a vice, as often...it can't be helped. Lincoln likened it to mental illness: The sufferer does not decide to be sick, they're just wired wrong.

That didn't make them any less dangerous. A leader who would ignore facing things because they were difficult or unpleasant was a leader who'd bring her people to ruin. From the looks of it, however, she came to realize just how grave matters were. She held the fate of Bartertown, and of its denizens, in her hands, and no matter what option she chose, the future was bleak. He envisioned her sitting in her present spot as the moon tracked across the sky, staring into space and wracked with torment like Christ in the garden, asking that this cup be taken from her lips but knowing that it would not. She had a hard choice to make - let the marauders in and hope they made good on their promise to _love and protect our own, _or fight for the freedom of her kingdom and possibly get everyone killed.

That's a hard decision, but the right one was clear to Lincoln.

Lola darted her eyes away, and Leni stepped back, deflated. "Okay," she said in a wan tone, "I'll just leave it here in case you change your mind."

"Thank you," Lola muttered. When she didn't speak further, Leni sagged her shoulders, turned, and trudged away. Lola hesitated. "Lincoln, I'd like to speak with you."

When Leni was gone, Lincoln closed the door behind him and walked grimly to the Queen's bedside. His gut instinct told him she wanted to vent or to seek his advice, but he could be wrong...maybe she wanted to try and seduce him again. He stood there, looking down at her, and she continued looking into space, her eyes on the dark TV screen but seeing beyond it, like a gypsy peeking through the veil of time and into the future. She hugged herself tighter as if against a chill only she could feel, and took a deep, shuddery breath through her nose, then let it out in a rush. "You must think I'm a monster," she said. There was a flat, traumatized quality to her tone - the voice of a woman who just watched a tornado tear away all her worldly possessions.

The statement caught Lincoln off guard. Would he go as far to call her a monster? He thought back to the day before, drinking from a dog bowl and choking when she yanked the leash with a high, gleeful laugh. "No," he said honestly, "but I do think you're a snooty little bitch who's in way over her head."

Lola winced as though the condemnation caused her physical pain. She opened her mouth, but snapped it closed again as silvery tears dribbled down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the heel of her palm and sniffed. "I am," she admitted in a breaking whisper. "I-I don't know what to do. I-I don't know how to deal with this." She spoke plaintively and with none of the overbearing superciliousness of the day before, not a Queen in a castle but a young girl faced with a challenge she could not surmount. Lincoln's chest clutched with pity, and some of the righteous fire burning in his heart died. He felt for her, but he wasn't going to sugar coat things, and he sure as hell wasn't going to slip on kid gloves. Maybe twenty-one was considered _childhood _in the decadent old world, but now, it was objectively not, and even if it were, she lost her claim to youth the moment she made the decision to lead these people.

"You fight," he said simply.

Lola shot him a frightened look. "If we do that -"

"You stand a good chance of winning," he cut in.

"How?" she asked, shaking her head in denial. "They have far more people than we do a-a-and this is what they do...t-t-they fight. My people don't have as much experience as his. They're hardened veterans, we're not."

Lincoln nodded, conceding her point. He didn't know how many battles her people had fought, but if she said it wasn't enough to put them on the same level as Ginormous's men, he would take her at her word. "No, but you have one important advantage."

She favored him with a quizzical look. "What?"

"The high ground," he said. "They are coming onto _your _turf. You have time to prepare; you can dig in and let them batter themselves against your defenses while picking them off one by one."

She seemed to consider his words. She was a lot of things, but she was not stupid.

"I have a few ideas," he said, "but we don't have a lot of time. We have to be quick."

She looked at him for an indecisive moment, then sighed. "What?" she asked, tacitly (and, he suspected, gratefully) letting him in and allowing herself to lean on him.

"First thing's first," he said, "you need to get Lynn back in here. She's a tough woman and she knows what she's doing."

Lola's gaze whipped to her lap, perhaps in shame of how she acted the previous evening, or perhaps because his praise of Lynn made her uncomfortable. He thought she would fight him, but she only nodded. "Alright. What next?"

"I'll wait until she's here," he said, "send someone to get her."

Lola sighed. "You can do it," she said. "Take Leni."


	7. Vulgar Display of Power

**STR2D3PO: It is. Wait until you see her name. **

* * *

Lynn Loud rolled out of bed sometime late on the morning of August 18, at least it was August 18 by the Bartertown calendar. No one, not even Lisa, the resident genius, knew exactly what day it was - it could be July 28 or September 15. Everyone lost track after the Collapse and for a while, they were too busy trying to survive to care. Lynn was not one of them - not knowing always niggled in the back of her mind, like a pestering fly, and she finally went to Lisa and asked her to come up with a new calendar. A calendar was, to Lynn, the most basic form of regimentation and the first step on the road to structure. Lynn liked order. Order was good. Freedom to choose your own course was vital, but no society could survive with _total _freedom, there had to be laws and boundaries, a neat and organized framework.

That belief came primarily from her father, who was an officer in the Marine Corps. He was a man of order and Lynn grew to be a _woman _of order; what is the absence of order, after all, if not chaos? Her worldview was reaffirmed by the Collapse: Six years ago, she watched the world she knew break down and the framework crumble. People, she came to realize, are like domesticated animals. They're docile and loving when their master feeds and pets them, but once they are turned out into the cold and left to fend for themselves, they either die...or grow feral. In the half decade since the old world fell away, Lynn had encountered many of the latter, the ones who steal, kill, and self-serve with every breath they draw. If they want something, they take it. Food. Gasoline. Your body. They lacked honor, restraint, loyalty, and _order_; if you asked her, they were irredeemable and should be shot.

Executing people willy-nilly wasn't the way to do things, however. Her father was a patriotic man and instilled in her a love for America and, by extension, its constitutional republic form of governance. America was not perfect (nothing ever was), but it was the freest nation on earth and structured much like Lynn's childhood - free but not _too _free, ordered but not repressive. For two years, she wandered the wastelands looking for a new America, a dusty rucksack over her shoulder and a .357 Magnum tucked into the front of her jeans. At night, she camped under the stars and longed for a life like the one she had known, one of routine and stability. During the same, she found only strife and discord.

That was in the early days of the Aftermath, before and during the mass die off that followed the war, when people flooded the desert in search of respite from the lawlessness, disease, and famine plaguing the cities. Sprawling tent cities sprang up in along the highways and the roving gangs that would eventually dominate the leftovers were beginning to take shape - no one protected the innocent, no one fed the hungry, no one stopped bad men from doing bad things...it was anarchy.

Slowly, the desert emptied, and new societies rose from the ashes, dotting the rugged terrain like cancerous cysts; violent tribes, oppressive dictatorships, theocracies, and war hungry bands of latter day Vikings bent on rape and plunder. Bartertown was different - when she stumbled in four years ago, sunburned and half dead with dehydration, it was an oasis. The people there cared for one another, they cared for freedom and order and wanted the same thing she did: A better world. She saw in this place what she did _not _see elsewhere: Potential. Bartertown could make it. It wouldn't be easy or quick, but if they worked hard and made sacrifices, they could build something special here.

Then J. Harriman Loud, kind and wise in a way his oil tycoon status belied, suffered a massive heart attack while supervising the building of the infirmary and died. Like any good leader, he was the glue that held the community together, and Lynn was terrified that his loss would result in a petty, world ending power squabble. Something even worse happened, however, something that Lynn never would have suspected even if given a million years to contemplate the matter.

His daughter, Lola, took over.

Lola Loud was the only person in Bartertown that Lynn genuinely disliked. She was stuck-up, prissy, snobbish, and labored under the perpetual delusion that because her father was rich, then a respected leader, she was better than everyone else. She was self-centered, lazy, spoiled, whiny, and every other fucking adjective. She walked around with her nose literally in the air, and when she designed to speak to you, she did it as though you were an idiot, a child, or, God forgive her for saying this, a nigger. While Lynn and the others busted their asses in the hot sun, building fences and homes, Lola either watched from beside her father, a contemptuous expression on her lips, or stayed in the manor, in the air conditioning, enjoying the fruits of other people's labors like the useless parasite she was. In hindsight, it wasn't surprising that she would want to take over - if someone else did, she might lose her cushy little lifestyle and actually have to _work _for once.

If Lynn was astonished by Lola assuming the burden of power, she was downright _flabbergasted _by how well she did. She lacked the warmth, congality, and interpersonal skills of her father, but on a nuts and bolts level, she was decent. Lynn learned why when Lola put her in charge of the security force: She delegated tasks and didn't micromanage. That was it. She was too lazy to do much for herself, so put it all on everyone else and kept her hands clean. That's no a bad approach when you have a group of subordinates who know what they are doing and do it well; thanks be to God Lola's underlings were all adept in their respective fields. J. Harriman Loud built a smooth, well-oiled machine, and Lola was blessed in that she only had to manage it.

Lola didn't have the self-awareness to understand that she was reaping the benefits of her father's work. She started to think _she _was the reason Bartertown was prospering...instead of recognizing her role as caretaker, she began to see herself as the aratect, which lead to her already inflated ego swelling even more. She became arrogant and lordly, first calling herself _Queen _then forcing everyone to take a name that started with L like hers...the most disgusting display of vanity and egotism Lynn had ever seen. She, like most of Bartertown, went along with it. She didn't know everyone else's reasons, but to her, it wasn't _about _her, it was about her long held dream of a better tomorrow. They were so close, and getting closer every day, going against Lola and causing trouble over something so stupid - even if it was justified - would hinder the progress they had made...and possibly even destroy it.

Bartertown was the framework Lynn had been searching for, and even though she hated Lola, she resolved to operate within it and to keep her eye on the prize. Her loyalty to that vision scared her sometimes, because if Lola told her to kick someone's door in at 3am and drag them to a gulag for speaking against her, she probably would. Whatever it took to see her hopes come to fruition.

After the raid that killed most of the men, Lola started in on wanting a baby boom. In her more charitable moments, Lynn told herself Lola was afraid - their population had dropped by almost half and many of their admittedly strongest fighters were gone. They needed more people, especially if they were going to be the Great Society Lynn envisioned, and she went along with it, even though it was clear that Lola only wanted more subjects.

Then she saw what Lola did to Lincoln, and she started to wonder. All yesterday after she left the palace, the memory of him in a fucking collar at Lola's feet like a dog haunted her. She agreed they needed men...she agreed that those men (and the women) had a duty to procreate regardless of love, attraction, and compatibility...but she did not agree with putting someone in chains and parading them around like a goddamn slave. After the way Lola acted with Lincoln yesterday, Lynn was certain that not only did she want more worshippers...she was also a horny slut who wanted to be dicked. All of it...the whole program...was selfish from beginning to end, meant only to benefit her. Lola didn't care about Bartertown, or about the future, or about rebuilding civilization better than it was before...all she cared about was herself, about having people falling on their knees before her and having her fairy princess pussy fucked. She sat at that dinner table last night and acted as though the hounds of hell _weren't _braying at the gates; she should have been planning, thinking, talking, _doing, _but instead she shoved her head up her own ass because she wasn't equipped to deal with Sir. Ginormous.

She wasn't fit to lead.

Her mind went back to the night before, Lincoln running his strong hands over Lola's shoulders, his eyes hazy with lust and her face burning fire truck red. Lynn watched in horror...outrage...and disbelief. They had more important matters to attend to, like shoring up Bartertown's defenses, and here was Lola practically being masturbated while Sir. Ginormous bore down on their heads like Judgement Day. Lynn glared at them, seething with fury, and a sharp pang went through her chest because...maybe...she kind of wanted him to touch _her _that way. He was certainly handsome and, well, after leaving the palace earlier in the day, she found herself hoping he'd go along with Lola's plans not for his sake but for hers.

She hadn't been with a man in a long time, and though she pretended to be anything but, she was a woman...and women have needs. She'd be a liar if she said she hadn't noticed him...and if she claimed she hadn't wondered what his rough hands would feel like on her tender breasts. That irritated her not because she was a frigid bitch who pathologically couldn't admit to having normal feelings, but because there were far more serious things to worry about right now than _that. _Even so, as she lay awake, thinking and plotting, she kept going back to him. One thing she missed about being with someone was being cuddled. She was strong, she was independent, but regardless...it felt really nice to be in a man's arms sometimes...to temporarily give your worries and troubles to him and let yourself feel completely safe and at peace. Even the toughest get weary and need to lean on someone from time to time, needed someone to confide in and tell all their secrets to, someone to be there for them no matter what.

Sigh. Maybe she'd been single too long. She was really no better than Lola, jumping at the first guy who came along. At least _she _didn't act on it, she just...looked at him. And smiled to herself at the memory of their exchange on the wall. He was quick and biting...honest too. And brave. The last thing he did before he passed out in town was say _fuck you, bitch. _She couldn't help respect him for that - most men she killed groveled, cried, and begged. One even screamed for his mother...legit called out _Mommy! _as she stabbed him. Well, you shouldn't have tried to rape me, buddy; bet your mom would have said the same thing.

Not Lincoln, though, he was a _real _man. Lola put him in a dog collar and he didn't he even kick up a stink - he bore it with grace and dignity aaaaaand she was getting off track...and kind of turned on, too. Goddamn it. Bound to happen after being alone for so long; human beings are social creatures, and if they don't have the friendship, love, and intimacy they need, they go a little bonkers. Even so, it annoyed the piss out of her.

Better to think of other things.

Like being killed and or enslaved by Sir. Ginormous.

Ahhh, that's better.

Sitting now on the edge of her twin bed in the tiny dirt floor hovel she shared with Lana, bright sunshine gushing through the window, she stared down at her socked feet and ran once more over the plan she devised the night before. Warm sweat trickled down the back of her neck and the fabric of the oversized T-shirt she slept in clung to her damp body; it was early but already hot and likely to get hotter. Across the room, Lana lay on her side facing away from Lynn, her back gently rising and falling with the swell of her breathing. She'd known and been close with Lana since she got to Bartertown - she was, in fact, the only person Lynn truly trusted.

Could she count on her help?

Lynn didn't know, didn't even know if she should go through with it. If she failed, she'd either die or wind up in one of the cells in the currently unused jailhouse. That was assuming Sir. Ginormous _didn't _take over, which at this point was a pretty big fucking if. If she succeeded, the mantle of power would be in her hands, which was comforting...but also terrifying. Especially with something like war hanging over her head.

The more she thought about it, the more she thought Bartertown might have a fighting chance...if Lola wasn't around.

Her eyes went to her pants from the day before, draped across her desk along with her shirt. When Lola fired her, she stormed off, and didn't realize she still had her key ring until she got home. The key ring that opened virtually everything in Bartertown.

Including the armory.

Lana stirred and muttered in her sleep. Lynn sighed and glanced at the Glock on her nightstand, sleek and black with a rubber grip. There were accessories in the top drawer amongst the brick-a-brac people always accumulate: A scope, an extended clip, and a silencer. There was also an Uzi under the bed, wrapped it a towel and pushed all the way against the wall. Rifles, shotguns, and other heavy duty firearms were kept in the armory and signed out only for specific purposes by a clerk who kept track of what went where. Handguns were allowed to be carried at all times, and most of the women in Bartertown had at least one on them, primarily on their hip but sometimes concealed. One of Lynn's main objectives when she became chief of security was to normalize Bartertown, first by enacting gun laws that prevented people from walking around with machine guns - that's fine and well in a lawless frontier town, but this was a growing and civilized community. People didn't have to carry weapons of war wherever they went. It was safe here, happy.

The armory was her idea, and had the added purpose to stockpiling all the guns in one place so that in event of attack, they could be quickly distributed. Most of the pieces in there belonged to someone, but in a situation like yesterday's, they became de facto government property and went into the first hands that came along.

She and Lana could get into the armory no problem, and if the clerk (would it be Luna or Leela today?) tried to stop them, Lynn wasn't above killing her...though she'd rather tie her up or something. The biggest problem, as she saw it, was getting others to follow her. She'd have to do it in secret - surely the others who were at the party last night would join. They knew something had to be done about Ginormous and that Lola wasn't up to it. If so, that would give her the backing of twelve people. There were twenty-five guards on patrol in Bartertown at any given moment, spread between the wall, the palace, and the town itself. Did they know she wasn't in charge anymore? She doubted Lola had the presence of mind to alert them; she could probably walk right into the palace like normal, and they'd even salute her. Once inside, she'd handle Lola.

Probably by killing her.

Lynn's stomach knotted and the taste of bile filled her mouth. She hated Lola, but not enough that she relished the idea of executing her. Oh, make no mistake about it, she'd kill her in a heartbeat, but she would not enjoy it.

Lana rolled onto her back and brushed her sweaty blonde bangs from her eyes; they were clear and alert with nary a trace of lingering fatigue. For her, there was no middle ground, she was either asleep or awake, much like Lynn herself. Lana was a fairly late arrival to Bartertown too; she spent two years making her way west from New York State. She didn't talk about her life before Bartertown, but Lynn suspected bad things happened to her on the road...the kind of things that harden a person...or kills them. "What time is it?" she asked.

"Nine," Lynn said after consulting the wind up clock on her nightstand.

"We overslept," Lana said.

Neither one had a place to be, but both like to rise early even on their off days. Part and parcel of adhering to a regimen. "Yeah," Lynn admitted in a sigh, "we did."

"Fantastic," Lana groused. She kicked the blankets off and sat up. She wore only a pink T-shirt emblazoned with the furry face of a fluffy white cat which stood in stark contrast to her hardman personality. She swung her toned legs over the edge and planted her bare feet firmly in the dirt. She stretched her arms and winced as something popped in her back. "What are we doing?"

Last night, as they lay in their respective beds and talked, Lana brought up the idea of going to see Lola. _We gotta do _something_, _she said. _Get it through her thick skull. _They decided once and for all that no matter what the result, they would both fight Ginormous and his gang...even if the others wouldn't. Lynn recalled what Lincoln said about him the day before. _He wants two things: Your vaginas and your gasoline, _and _You're gonna roll over and pray he was telling the truth about loving and protecting you, then, when it's too late, you're gonna see he wasn't._

He was right. Sir. Ginormous was going to rape and enslave them no matter what - at least fighting back they had a chance. If they let him in, they had nothing. She didn't know how anyone else felt, but Bartertown was worth fighting for...and dying for.

First, however, came the 64 million dollar question: Should she overthrow Lola?

"I don't know," she said, more to herself than to Lana. She hesitated, then added, "But I had an idea."

Lana raked her fingers through her hair. "What's that?"

Lynn wavered, then committed. "Get rid of Lola."

The younger woman's brows knitted in an expression that was as close to shock as she could come. "You mean a coup?"

"Pretty much," Lynn said. It seemed strange to apply such a profound word to her rinky-dink little plan, but that's basically what it was: A coup. A coup is a take over staged by a small number of individuals typically already in positions of power while a revolution was undertaken by people from outside the government and usually enjoyed a fair amount of popular support. Both were events you saw in history books or on the news - a military junta in some third world country ousting the president and dissolving parliament.

As surreal as it was, however, that's exactly what she was proposing.

Lana swiped her tongue nervously across her bottom lip as she considered the ramifications of what Lynn was suggesting. Lynn's heart twisted at the prospect of Lana turning her down...then running off to narc her out. You wouldn't know it by her rough exterior, but Lana wanted a better tomorrow just as bad as Lynn herself did, and if she considered Lynn's plan a threat to achieving that, she wouldn't hesitate to stop her, friends or not. When she replied, the fist clutching Lynn's chest released. "You think it would work?" she asked curiously.

"Yeah. I wanna get other people onboard, but all we have to do is raid the armory then march on the palace."

God, that sounded pretentious. _March on the palace. _

Lana mulled it over for a minute. "Do you think everyone would be okay with it? Afterward?"

"Probably," she said. People didn't talk against Lola very much (at least not that Lynn heard, though she was the chief of security, so they might not talk against Lola _in front of her_), but she wasn't very popular. Was she unpopular enough that the people would accept her ouster?

"Alright," Lana nodded, "what are we doing after _that? _Things aren't gonna be sunshine and rainbows just cuz Lola's gone. We still got Ginormous-dickhole to worry about."

Lynn let out a deep breath. "I know. We gotta -"

Someone knocked, and she and Lana both whipped their heads to the door, Lynn's stomach squeezing. God, someone knew and now she and Lana were about to be dragged away. It didn't matter that she hadn't told a soul about the treasonous thoughts, didn't matter that the plan wasn't even half way formed until practically this very moment...she'd been discovered.

Lana's eyes narrowed warily; she reached into her nightstand and brought out a revolver. Lynn swallowed hard and glanced at the Glock. She was being paranoid, there was no way anyone knew. It was probably one of the guards - Lori or Luan, perhaps - come by to see if the rumors were true and Lynn was no longer chief.

She got to her feet, the hem of her shirt slipping down over the tops of her thighs and hiding her panties. She considered pulling her pants on, but screw it - if someone couldn't handle seeing her legs, that was on them. She was in her own home, after all. Behind her, Lana shifted and laid the gun on her lap, keeping it out of sight but at the ready. Lynn padded across the soft dirt and undid the latch, then pulled the door open.

A gust of dry, abrasive air washed over her face, and the Mojave sun stung her eyes, making her wince. Two figures, backlit against the glare, stood before her, and she squinted to see who they were.

She blinked in surprise.

Lincoln and Leni, the latter in her uniform dress and the former in a white T-shirt and jeans, the wind rustling his lank white hair and dark stubble covering his strong, angular chin. Her eyes were drawn against their will to his bare arm, the curve of his powerful muscles begging to be touched and stroked.

Lynn blinked again, this time in dismay. Jesus, where did _that _come from?

And more importantly...what the fuck did _they _want?

"Hi, Lynn," Leni said happily.

Lynn glanced over her shoulder at Lana, who looked equally confused. She didn't put the gun away, but the barrel seemed to wilt a little, Leni's presence disarming. A sweet girl, Leni was what Lynn's father would have called _simple. _Everyone in town knew it, but loved her for her kindness anyway; she was less threatening than Santa Claus - her being here put Lynn at ease in a way that no one else would have.

It still puzzled her. "Hi," she said guardedly, "what's up?" She looked between her and Lincoln, catching the latter darting his eyes away from her legs. She realized she was practically naked in front of a man (a handsome one, at that) and almost blushed. What was that she thought about not caring if people saw her legs? Yeah, woosh, right out the window.

Leni opened her mouth, but Lincoln cut her off. Lynn couldn't be sure, but she thought the flush in his face wasn't only because of the heat. "Lola wants to see you."

That gave her pause. "She does?" she asked.

"Yeah," Lincoln replied with a nodded, "she does. About coming back."

Coming back? As in...to work? Huh. Did little Miss Priss realize what a blunder firing her was? "Oh? Is she ready to get serious now?" Lynn asked patronizingly.

Leni looked to Lincoln as if she, too, was curious. "Yeah," he said, "she is. Are _you_?"

She couldn't say why exactly, but that question, and the cocky tone he asked it in...as though _she _were the one being unreasonable, kind of really offended her. "I've _been _ready," she responded sharply. "I was ready last night when you were practically fucking Lola at the table." Lincoln's brow flinched ever so slightly, and she regretted bringing it up.

"Alright, then," he said in that understated way of his, "come on. We gotta be quick. I have an idea."

Lynn lifted her brow as though him having an idea surprised her. It did not - he struck her as quick witted - but him wanting to help did, given what Lola did to him yesterday. "_You _have an idea?"

He regarded her blankly. "Yes, I have an idea. Put your big girl pants on and hurry up."

Lynn's eyes narrowed. He was handsome, but he was kind of a bastard too.

All the more reason to like him. "Watch it suck."

"It's better than anything you could come up with," he shot back, then, because he was a savage, he added a mocking, "sweetie" that made Lynn sneer. "Now cut it out and come on. Bring Lisa too."

Then he was gone. Lynn stared after him, only now realizing that her heart weakly pitter-pattered and her stomach fittered like something was tracing the her abdominal walls with jagged fingers, searching for escape. She knew that feeling well.

She kind of had a crush on him.

Like a little baby.

She let out an agitated growl and threw her head back. Nice one, Loud, real nice. You wanna hold his hand and giggle at him too? Do you even know his real name?

No, actually, she did not.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, she closed the door and turned; Lana was already up and pulling her pants on. "I figured she'd come to her senses," she said.

Lynn grabbed her own pants from the desk. "I didn't," Lynn said, then missed a beat. "I was kind of hoping she wouldn't."

"Yeah," Lana said, "we can't overthrow her now."

Well...that wasn't exactly true, they _could_. Lola seeing the error of her ways and calling her back, however, demonstrated thought and initiative, which is all she really wanted. She also wanted to use her real name again, but hey, one step at a time.

"We'll see," Lynn said noncommittally.

"You still wanna?" Lana asked. She pulled her T-shirt off and tossed it aside, her small, pert breasts staring at Lynn like an aghast face, her dark areolas like eyes and her belly button a puckered mouth.

Normally an absurdist observation like that would make her snort, but now it didn't. "I dunno," she sighed. "Maybe. I just want...you know...what's best."

At her wardrobe, Lana took out a white uniform shirt with patches on either shoulder: A gold star on a field of black. The uniforms were Lynn's idea; the security force needed a symbol of their authority, plus, people instantly respect a uniform. It's psychology. Or maybe sociology. Something like that. "Yeah, and I think you'd be a better leader than her." Shoulder blades flexing under her white skin, Lana slipped into the shirt and started to button it.

"I dunno if I want it, though," Lynn said, the concept sour in her mouth. "That's a lot of responsibility."

Lana grabbed a black tie from her dresser and knotted it around her neck, over, under, pull, like Spongebob tying his shoes. "Yeah, you'd still do better than her, though."

"No shit," Lynn said with an easy confidence she didn't really feel, "you would be too."

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, Lana reached for her boots. "Nah," she said dismissively. "I'd fuck it _all_ up. We'd be killing each other for food in a week. Donner Party style." She snickered morbidly, and Lynn rolled her eyes. To be honest, though, she didn't really see Lana as leader material. She was one of those all too common people who excel under the right management but could not be a manager themselves - she needed someone telling her what to do. A leader is one who forges their own way, and Lana was one who followed the trails they blazed. Lynn always compared it to drawing because once upon a time, she was a competent artist and was comfortable with related analogies. Lana could color beautifully inside the lines, but could not draw free hand to save her life. There was nothing wrong with that (a power structure, like society itself, takes all kinds of different people to function), but no, Lana would _not _be the best choice for replacing Lola.

Lana realized this, and Lynn respected her all the more for it. Some people don't know their own limitations, and they, Lynn thought, were the most dangerous of all. They believed they could hold the weight of the world on their shoulders...then buckled.

She often wondered if she was one of those. She did well at her job and knew it, but she still had superiors, metaphorical floaties little kids used to wear in pools, If you took those away, could she swim on her own? That was a question for which she had no answer. She was the captain of her soccer team in high school, but there's a huge difference between leading a bunch of girls in a game and leading a multi-faceted society.

"I doubt you'd be _that_ bad," she said. She took her shirt off and dropped it onto the desk, baring her breasts with the ease and comfort of a woman changing in front of her sister. "It'd be more like _two _weeks." She flashed a playful grin.

"You give me too much credit," Lana said. She tied one boot, then the other. They were black and spotless, gleaming in the sun like the edge of a knife blade. Like Lynn, she polished them every night. In fact, they shared many habits, many of them Lana picked up from Lynn during their time together. Lynn would never breathe a word to anyone, but she suspected that Lana looked up to her the way a child looks up to an older sibling, watching intelty for cues and subtly seeking guidance. She tried to be a positive role model without making it obvious; it might wound Lana's pride if she knew that Lynn was aware of her admiration.

Lynn went over to her wardrobe and took a shirt out. "Yeah," she said over her shoulder, "and you don't give yourself enough credit."

"I'm a realist," Lana replied. She got to her feet and threaded her belt through the loops of her pants. "I'm not cut out for sitting in an ivory tower and playing princess pony dress up. I gotta be where the action is." She cracked a rare, lopsided grin that she showed only to Lynn, and once, to a man she was dating. He died with the others, and she and Lynn pretended he never happened. It was easier that way.

Lynn slipped her shirt on and buttoned it up. "Then we'll shoot someone on the way to get Lisa."

"Now you're talking." She clipped her holster onto her belt, then dropped the revolver in. "Headshot."

"Body shots are easier to take," Lynn reminded her as she put her belt on.

Lana blew a raspberry and waved her hand. "Headshots are nothing," she bragged, "if you know what you're doing."

"Okay, hotshot," Lynn said and rolled her eyes. The main difference between her and Lana was that where Lynn was more cautious, Lana was bold. Maybe it had to do with Lana's youth, or maybe she felt like she had to prove herself. Lynn didn't know. She tried her best to get through her friend's thick skull, but she was hellbent on bravado, so whaddya gonna do?

She crossed to the nightstand, grabbed her holster from the drawer, and clipped it on, then shoved her Glock in. "Let's go."

Outside, the sun sat high in the dusty sky, its rays relentlessly pounding the parched hardpan. The breeze present just a moment ago was gone now, and sweat instantly sprang to Lynn's forehead. Lana whipped out her key and locked the door while Lynn waited. Petty crime was extremely rare in Bartertown, but they still preferred their doors and windows locked while they were away, thank you very much.

Their street was a narrow avenue no bigger than an alleyway. The houses along it, spaced less than six feet apart to save room, were clapboard and adobe, their angles and edge sloppy. No one in Bartertown knew much about construction when most of it was built, and they did the best they could with what limited knowledge and resources they had. Lynn helped build most of this section and took extreme pride in it. It wasn't much to look at, but to her it symbolized progress. When Lincoln insulted the craftsmanship yesterday, outrage flooded her chest and she almost slapped him. She took pity on him because of his ankle. He didn't complain, but you could see in his face that every step was an agony. Plus...he was a dust dweller, fuck him. Her being offended over his little comment would be like Michelangelo getting butthurt over a five year old calling one of his paintings dumb.

Walking side-by-side, Lynn and Lana made their way west toward the infirmary. The previous day after leaving the palace, Lynn sought Lisa out. _What can you do?_

Lisa didn't have to ask what she meant. There was only one topic on everyone's minds - it started with an S and ended with ir Ginormous. _Pipe bombs, _she said without missing a beat.

_Pipe bombs? _Lynn asked incredulously.

Lisa nodded curtly. _They're quick and relatively simple to make. If we mass produce them, we can have more than enough by the time the raiders return. _Lynn left her with instructions to make as many as she could on her own, assuming that they would be able to talk to Lola and organize some kind of civilian defense force. _That _didn't pan out.

"You ever get tired of the heat?" Lana asked to make conversation. People walked by on the opposite side of the street, heading either to the market or the community center, which featured a library, a makeshift movie theater where old films were shown on Friday and Saturday nights via projector, and an above ground pool out back. Their movements were stiff and guarded, as though each one expected to be accosted at any moment. Lynn was struck by how none of them seemed to smile. On a normal day, people nodded to one another or stopped to chat with the friendly and easygoing nonchalance of small town neighbors; this morning, everyone rushed and each face Lynn glimpsed was a strained mask of tight-lipped worry. The atmosphere, usually light and warm, simmered with tension like storm clouds brewing over a prairie.

"Sometimes," Lynn said, facing forward.

"I do," Lana replied and swiped the back of her hand across her slick forehead.

Lynn knew. Lana was originally from a little town in Maine called Castle Rock _where it never gets above eighty-five_. She said that with a hint of pride, as though living in a colder climate made her strong. Maybe it did...but out here it made her weak. Lynn herself was from Tucson; the desert was to her what water was to a fish. That didn't mean she liked to fry - she just wasn't a little girly girl who couldn't take it. "Why the hell did people come out here in the first place? Shoulda stopped at the Mississippi and le the damn Indians keep it."

They were at a T-shaped intersection now, Lola Drive opening up on either side of them, the shops and businesses lining the plank board walkway protected from the sun by a narrow overhang. A horse-drawn cart filled with fruit and vegetables passed en route to the market, and a woman on a bicycle flew by in the opposite direction, leaning over the handlebars to cut down on wind resistance. Owing to the scant width of the streets, cars weren't allowed in Bartertown, not that many people had one. A couple dozen were parked in a dusty lot on the outside of the north wall, while a feet of scout vehicles sat in ranks near the front gate. A special division of the security department called the Outlands Expeditionary Force was responsible for going abroad in search of supplies. For a while, it was building materials, but lately it was men. At first, a woman named Leda was in charge, but she and a contingent of OEF troops came under fire from raiders during a routine trip into Staunton, the county seat. She and another woman were killed in the battle, and Lynn assumed direct on-ground command during subsequent missions.

Though she wouldn't admit it, even to Lana (especially to Lana), she was sick with nerves during her first run. She hadn't been outside Bartertown in nearly two years, and the memory of the wastelands had grown darker and more threatening with every day she spent behind the walls until she was certain she would be swarmed by raiders, rapists, and vampires the moment she set foot through the gate. The world looked very much like it did before, only emptier; Staunton, once a mid-sized city of 10,000 stood completely deserted, its streets strewn with litter and broken glass and its traffic lights swaying forlornly in the wind. At some point, a fire claimed much of the industrial section, the charred ruins like the bones of an ancient beast rising up from the grave.

In the last days, Staunton was home to a refugee camp administered by FEMA; its remnants were still visible under a freeway overpass: Tents, trash, and dead bodies scattered around like the after effects of a giant and bloodthirsty child's tantrum.

Lynn discovered something about herself that day. She didn't like being outside. Each trip she made afterwards was easier than the last, but she could never fully shake the feeling of being naked, exposed, and vulnerable.

"I'd rather this than fifty below," Lynn said. The infirmary appeared three blocks up, a long, low adobe structure with slitted widows and a flat roof. Palm trees grew along the facade and wavered in the breeze like beckoning hands inviting the sick and wounded to come and stay awhile.

Lana sniffed. "You can always put on more layers when you're cold...but you can only take off so much."

"Yeah, no," Lynn said. "Not into winter. I like it hot."

Lana nodded understandingly, then favored her friend with a knowing sidelong glance. "Speaking of hot...Lincoln, huh?"

Lynn's step faltered. "You think he's hot?" she asked after a fumbling moment.

"Kinda," Lana admitted, "but I meant you."

"Me?"

"You," Lana confirmed, "you think he's hot."

Lynn's step stopped and her heart with it. "No I don't," she said just a little too quickly.

"Yes, you do," Lana teased. "Mr. Hunky Dreamboat."

"I do _not,_" Lynn said, "I mean, he's alright looking and all, but, not like, you know, I don't…" she stopped, realizing she was stumbling over her words and hating herself for it. She blushed with embarrassment - because she looked stupid and because she _did _think he was hot - and coughed.

Lana's jaw dropped, then she grinned mischievously. "I was just fucking with you, but you do, don't you?"

"No," Lynn said firmly, but already knew it was too late. She let her cool slip and practically confessed.

Lana threw back her head and laughed. "Shit. Lynn has a little girly crush."

"Do not," Lynn spat and drove her elbow into Lana's arm.

"You gonna make a him a friendship bracelet?"

Lynn sighed. Whether you're thirteen or thirty, there's nothing worse than being teased about liking someone. Liking...God, she sounded like she was in middle school. She found him attractive and his personality seemed okay, that was it. She didn't even know him, so it wasn't _really _a crush, was it?

And why the hell was she making such a big deal out of it? Nothing wrong with thinking a guy was handsome and _maybe _wanting to get to know him a little.

No, nothing wrong at all...yet for some reason it _felt _wrong. Even when you didn't factor in there being more important things to worry about.

Lana's grin widened, lending her the appearance of a shark scenting blood, and Lynn steeled herself. "If you hold his hand, you better wear a glove. That's how cooties spread."

The infirmary loomed ahead; an old woman came through the double doors holding a cane. She stopped, dug in her purse, then limped off in the direction of the palace. Lynn nodded slowly in defeat. "Yeah, go ahead," she said, "laugh it up." Her feet tangled and she staggered.

"You're clumsy 'cause you're falling in love," Lana said and batted her eyelashes.

"Alright, goddamn it, that's enough," Lynn snapped.

Lana held her hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm done."

They were at the doors now, their watery reflections skimming the surface of the glass like ghosts in twilight. Inside, it was dim and cool; a long hall stretched into the distance before terminating at another door; sunlight fell through and gleamed on the tiles like puddles of quicksilver. To the right, a counter stood along the wall. Lester sat behind it, a faded hardback thrust up in front of his face. Lynn and Lana went over and Lynn laid her hand on the edge. When he didn't acknowledge them, she cleared her throat, and the boy jumped, the book dropping from his hands and clattering to the desk.

A short, pudgy boy with clear hazel eyes and unkempt brown hair that hung past his ears, Lester reminded Lynn of a fish - eyes wide and too close together, mouth small and working as he sucked great gulps of air. Zits and blackheads dotted his wide, flat cheeks, and faint peach fuzz grew along his thin upper lip.

"Your mom in?" Lynn asked without preamble.

Lester swallowed hard and brushed his greasy bangs from his broad forehead, revealing more pimples, one with an ugly yellow head that almost made Lynn crinkle her nose. Far be it from her to judge someone on their appearance, but she also wasn't one to sugar coat the truth: The kid was ugly as hell. Socially awkward too, the kind of guy who'd be chained to a computer in his mother's basement and jacking off to anime porn in the old world. If Lola didn't practically force him and Lamis into breeding, he'd still be a virgin at thirty-five, possibly forty.

She didn't know much about his and Lamis's relationship other than they got along well enough; Lamis was a sweet girl and, Leni said, was _totes dedicated to being a good wife. _Shoving her into motherhood and matrimony with Lester (and yeah,him with her) didn't sit entirely well with Lynn, but in this day and age, you can't be picky with your partner the way you could ten years ago. Back then, you had websites like Tindr and OkCupid where if you came across someone who wasn't exactly what you wanted, you could always swipe right (or was it left?) until you either found your perfect match or, more realistically, died alone because your perfect match didn't exist. Now, in Bartertown at least, you had an extremely limited pool of potential mates and very little chance that something better would come along. Better take what you can get.

Lynn didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad, but it's how the world was now. She, herself, wouldn't reject a man for being unattractive, though she wasn't in a rush to settle down with someone she couldn't love. It was understood that she would eventually bear someone's child, as was her duty, but she hadn't given the idea any amount of thought - that was far, far in the future, a worry for another day.

"Uhhh," Lester drew and looked nervously, "y-yeah, she's in but, uh, s-she's busy right now. I can get her." He hooked his thumb down the hall as he spoke.

"Go on," Lynn said.

Jumping clumsily to his feet, the boy fled; Lynn always got the impression she scared him, and the way he rushed off only strengthened that suspicion. She turned, leaned back against the counter, and folded her arms. Lana slipped her hands into her pockets and bent deeply forward like she was trying to pop her spine. "You got any ideas how we're gonna do it? You know...getting ready?"

Lynn nodded. She had a lot of ideas on how to shore up the defenses - that was one of the many thoughts she entertained as she laid awake the night before. Lincoln said he had ideas too, and she was kind of eager to see how his matched up to hers. Maybe well...maybe not. He seemed like a smart guy, but he was also a drifter whereas she was the head of security, this kind of thing was her job...and her passion. Sharp or not, Lincoln didn't care about Bartertown the way she did, didn't care about the promises it held to the same extent. That he cared at all shocked her, considering what Lola had done to him.

Her mind flashed back to yesterday...her driving the butt of her rifle into his shoulder, and her stomach twisted.

What Lola had done to him...and what _she _did to him.

He had every right to hate their guts...by all accounts he _should _hate their guts...but he was offering to help.

Lynn scrunched her lips to the side in thought. What if he was plotting something? Pretending to help so he could sabotage them. It would make sense...she and Lola had been nothing but cruel to him...shot him, kidnapped him, hit him, made clean the stables on a sprained ankle, put him in a dog collar...yeah, he had every reason to hate them and every reason to want vengeance.

That this only now occurred to her was disturbing. _This _is why having a crush was wrong. _Oh, it's okay to think a guy's hot. _No, it's actually not, because shit like that clouds your judgement. She was so taken with his appearance and personality that she didn't even stop to think that taking him at face value was a bad idea.

Maybe he was sincere...but that was kind of a big maybe.

She'd have to watch him...talk to him and feel him out a little. Little baby girly crush or not, she wouldn't hesitate to blow his head off if he proved to be a threat.

Presently, Lisa strode down the hall, her heels clicking and resounding through the confined space. She wore a black skirt that stopped just below the knees and a green blouse under a white lab coat. Her mouth was a neutral line and her eyes held no emotion. Lynn was always niggled by the woman's flat personality - her face was always blank, her voice toneless. Lynn sometimes wondered if Lisa wasn't some kind of sociopath or something, and unbeknownst to everyone (even Lola), Lynn had her put on an internal watch list. She was not under constant 24 hour surveillance or anything, but the security agents knew to keep a close eye on her and report any suspicious activity directly to Lynn. So far, Lynn's intelligence gathering campaign had yielded nothing, and she was beginning to think that Lisa was trustworthy.

At least as trustworthy as anyone.

Walking up, Lisa gave a curt nod and Lynn stood up straighter. "I assume you're here about the matter we discussed yesterday," Lisa said.

"Kind of," Lynn said, "Lola wants to see us. Looks like she's ready to get her head in the game." Lynn cocked her brow quizzically. "Have you made any bombs?"

Lisa nodded. "I have. I recruited some volunteers and, as of now, we have nearly fifty."

Wow. "That many?" Lynn asked, impressed.

"Yes. We've been working all night and plan to continue through this evening at the very least. We'd work faster if we had more help. As it stands, there are nine of us. Another nine and we could double our output. Would you like to see them?"

The factory (that's what Lynn thought of it as) was housed in one of the sick wards at the end of the hall, a long, rectangular room lined with beds and windows. A dozen folding tables were set up in the middle, and woman sat in chairs before them, assembling pipe bombs like seamstresses in a 19th century sweatshop, their nimble fingers flying assuredly over their respective tasks. The air was hot and dry, the window open to emit a breeze that wanted no part of war manufacturing. There was a pressing sense of urgency, each woman working quickly, racing against the clock, for in a little over 24 hours, Sir. Ginormous would be back.

Boxes sat on several of the beds, and Lisa reached into one, pulling out a length of pipe capped on both ends, a fuse made of wire jutting from one. "We ripped apart a couple clocks and timed a few of them, but not many. Most require manually ignition and will need to be thrown like a handgrenade." She held it out, and Lynn took it; the metal was warm, slick, and heavy in her hand, lending it the illusion of life. She turned it from side to side, examining it from every side as though she knew what she was looking at. She did not. "Looks good," she said and handed it back.

"There are bigger ones," Lisa said. She turned and nodded to a cluster of long metal poles leaning against the wall, some three feet long and some even more.

Lana blinked. "Whoa," she said with a elfin little grin, "those are like pipe nukes." Lynn glanced at her, and the younger woman's eyes twinkled with girlish merriment. She liked things that went boom maybe a little _too _much. "PMDs."

"They aren't much more powerful than the more compact ones," Lisa explained and crossed her arms, "but they'll make passable anti motorized transport mines. I suggest lining them up outside the wall at a slanted angle, facing the onslaught."

Lynn nodded. That was a good idea. "We'll see if we can get more help. In the meantime, can you come? Right now?"

Lisa hesitated and looked around. "I should be able to," she said.

"Come on," Lynn said, "we have to hurry."

It would take time to increase Bartertown's defenses...time that they might not even have.

* * *

Many eons ago, in the steep, sandy desert of Israel, God compiled a list of seven deadly sins, things that his children - those curious and repulsive beings called Jews - were to avoid. In the desert of the American Southwest circa 2031 A.D., Sir. Ginormous, the new God, created a similar list: The Ten Dangerous Sins. The gravest of these sins was the sin of emotion. Human beings are designed to feel, that is natural, but it is _not _natural to let your emotions govern you. Emotions are fickle things, messy and powerful too, best taken in moderation, like the occasional stiff drink. Like the occasional stiff drink, however, the weakest people allow one to lead to two, then to three...then by the end of it all, they are sloppy drunks who cannot find their way back to reason. Children, the mentally retarded, and women let their emotions dictate their actions, while men, real men, act on cool and practical logic no matter _how _angry or otherwise upset the may be.

In the days leading up to the Collapse, people exalted feelings above truth, frailty over strength, cowardice instead of bravery. He saw much of it in his position as head of anthropology at UC Santa Barbara, students well into their twenties unable to cope with different opinions, running to hermetically sealed safe spaces to escape intellectual discussion, self-reflection, and the indignity of possibly being forced to accept that their positions were not universal or even objectively right. This destructive mindset was allowed and facilitated by universities and outright _encouraged _by social justice warriors on the left. If something "scares" or "triggers" you, they said, run from it. If you are confronted by an idea you do not like, do not stand firm, retreat then cry and stomp your feet until you get your way.

At first, this perplexed him, then annoyed him, then, as he saw its effects upon his students and society in general, it _enraged _him. As a normal man, he too was bothered and offended by certain things, but he never let them dominate him, and would never allow his emotions to override his intellect; there was nothing he held in higher contempt than a man who could not control his temper. To him, they were little more than overgrown children deserving of scorn and derision. There were words, concepts (such as socialism), and people (drug addicts, hookers, his own students) that made him so livid he could barely see straight, but you would never know it because he was strong, and he prided himself on his ability to keep a cool head where others would, or could, not.

Overly emotional people were scum and he hated their guts.

It was for this reason, then, that he was beside himself with self-loathing on the morning of September 1 (by _Watu's _calendar). He had been awake since just before dawn and for some inexplicable reason, he woke with burning _fury _in his chest. He did not dream, as far as he could remember, and he was not perturbed or irritated when he fell asleep - there was no apparent cause for his seething rage, but he felt it nevertheless, like a throbbing ball of electricity, its fingers streaking through his body and searing every nerve, every molecule. He lit the kerosene lamp on his nightstand, got dressed, donned his mask and boots..,then paced back and forth from one side of the tent to the other, hands clenched, teeth grinding, vision doubling. As he stalked an endless circuit, he thought of every single thing that angered him, knowing, vaguely, that he was simply adding fuel to the fire but not caring; as Bradbury once wrote, it was a pleasure to burn. He went back to lying helpless on the ground as his wife and daughter were raped and murdered, hating the bastards who did it and himself for being too physically weak to fight back; to the long months he spent trying to reach Chandler, who was so traumatized that he did not speak and stared into space with a vacant look in his eyes; to Lola's constant rejections; to being passed repeatedly over for tenure by the dean of the college; to not having enough food or women or gasoline; to having to subsist in the dust like camel-fucking Iraqis. There was a lot to be cross about, and instead of trying to stand against the tide, he let it carry him away.

Weak, scarlet sunlight crept over the desert floor, setting fire to the scrub brush and painting the canvas walls of the tent. Life began to stir in camp, men emerging from their tents, cars, and sleeping bags - where ever they passed the night - and setting about their daily routine. Pots clanged, fires crackled, and voices seasoned the air. This only made Ginormous even more wrought. The men and precious few women composing his sect were as hardy and dogged as he could hope for, but most of them were sloped brow, knuckle dragging idiots, the kind of cretins who once formed the proverbial dregs of society. Outlaw bikers, pimps, losers, drifters. They were as children, requiring constant maintenance and supervision - if you turned your back on them, at least one was bound to bungle something. They were interchangeable cogs in a machine - they were uncultured and uncivilized and had no hopes, thoughts, or aspirations beyond the gratification of their immediate needs. Little more than animals.

And he hated them. Hated how loud and dirty they were, hated how they smelled, hated the way they walked and talked, hated that they were just like the men who murdered his wife and daughter and fucked Chandler into year long catatonia.

Flashing, he shot out his arm and swept the lamp from the table; it shattered on the ground with a satisfying tinkle, and, baring his teeth, he stomped it into the dirt, glass crunching under his boot.

People like that..._his _people...were untrustworthy. They followed orders not because they respected them or the ones who issued them, but because they were afraid of the repercussions. You couldn't rely on them, you couldn't have faith in them, you couldn't even expect basic loyalty. The first chance they got, they would turn on him, then they'd tear themselves apart because all of them were too stupid to know what to do afterwards.

Claustrophobia gripped his chest and breathing was suddenly hard. Turncoats, all of them.

They needed a lesson.

They needed to _see _what happens to disobedient children.

He would pick a man at random and execute him.

No, no.

They needed to know he was serious.

He'd pick a woman.

As if on cue, Chandler slipped in through the flap, clad in desert camo pants, brown boots, and a black tank top that bared his muscular arms. He wore an M-16 across his back and a Colt .45 on his hip. "I want a woman executed," Ginormous said.

Chandler displayed no emotion - no shock, surprise, or dubiety. "Any particular one?" he asked.

Ginormous made an impatient circle with his hand. "Pick one and bring her to me."

"Alright," Chandler said. With that, he turned around and went back outside. Ten minutes later, he and another man came through the flap, a woman between them. Tall and scrawny to the point of emaciation, her red hair spilling over her shoulders and her hazel eyes clouded with apprehension, she wore tight leather pants and a leather jacket over a blue and white striped shirt. Ginromous reconized her, but had never bothered to learn her name.

Chandler shoved her forward, and she stumbled, nearly losing her balance. Ginormous loomed over her, and she looked up into his face, her nostrils flaring as she sucked rapid gulps of air. She reminded him of a tiny woodland creature in the presence of a fox, her dumb fear fanning the flames of his wrath. She nervously licked her chapped lips and swallowed. She started to speak, but Ginormous cut her off with a quick, savage jab to the cheek; her head whipped to one side and she dropped to the dirt like a sack of flour.

Prostrate, she moaned and whimpered. A rush of hatred exploded from his depths. Look how pitiful, how utterly useless. One blow and she was practically dead. Disgusting. Bending over, he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her into a sitting position. She cried out and scratched ineffectually at his hand. He didn't notice, nor would he care if he had. Looking deep into her wide, terrorized eyes, he saw not her, but the men who killed his family, the woman who blocked his every effort to save the world, and everyone else who had ever transgressed against him. She would turn on him if he let her...she would set him on fire and hurt his little boy.

Sneering, he cocked back his fist and crashed it into her right eye. She screamed, and he did it again. Leaning in until their noses were almost touching, he said, "You think you can do whatever you want, but you're sadly mistaken. You'll pay for your crimes...and they'll all see." Releasing her, he stood and turned to Chandler, who stared down at the woman as though she were mildly repellant. "Take her to a holding cell...then make a cross."

Nodding, Chandler came over, grabbed the woman by the back of her jacket, and hauled her to her feet.

She sobbed as she was taken away, like a child.

Two hours later, a simple, rugged telephone pole rose in the middle of camp, planted like a ghastly flower with no blooms. A milling multitude fanned out before it, five ranks deep and restless. No one looked at each other, and if they could help it, they didn't look at the crucifix either. Sir. Ginormous stood at the head of the pack, his feet spread far apart and his hands on his hips. The woman, naked, hung from the stake, her hands lashed above her head in an X and her feet tied similar. She sobbed hysterically and thrashed against her bonds, the sound of her desperation rolling over the silent crowd; grim-faced, the gathering looked ashamedly down at their feet, or at their leader's bare back, anywhere but that the pitiful sight before them,

Chandler, on a ladder, jammed the tip of a railroad spike into the woman palms and lifted a hammer. The woman moaned and wiggled in a vain attempted to get away, but the heavy rope, biting into her sun bronzed flesh, kept her in place. Ginormous watched as Chandler drew back the hammer; the rage in his chest had cooled, and pity, like faint autumn wind, stirred his soul. Perhaps, in a way, the execution unfolding before him began as a wanton and meaningless fit of errant revenge, but now it was simply business. His people _had _to see what would happen if they went astray. They did not respect him, he accepted that, but they would _fear_ him.

The woman uttered a high, throat-shredding screech when Chandler brought the hammer down, sending the spike through her hands. She whipped her head from side to side, tears oozing from her straining eyes in molten rivers. Chandler did it again, the spike sinking deeper, pinning her to the splintered wood; blood gushed down her wrists and arms, dripping off and splashing to the dust like rain. The hollow _thwock _of the third strike rang through the desert like a funeral knell; the woman ached her back, her tiny breasts thrusting out as if in supplication, and a mournful wail burst from her trembling lips.

Dropping the hammer onto the ground with a muffled _thump, _Chandler climbed down the ladder, his movement slow, cold, and methodical, those of a man who had done nothing as morally taxing as hanging a Christmas wreath. He stooped down, retrieved the hammer, and glanced up at the woman. Her face contorted in pain and her body shook with the power of her sobs. A twinge of remorse pinched Ginormous's heart, but he ignored it, for he was strong, and it had to be done. His people were ignorant, they needed to be reminded that there was a price to pay for their tresspasses.

He turned to the crowd - the faces greeting him were pale and drawn, heads hung, troubled gazes downcast. The woman's screams rolled over them, piercing, maddening, inescapable, the very sound Death itself made as it floated through the night looking for souls to reap. He could see the weakness lurking beneath their facades, and disdain filled him. They were physically strong, but mentally and emotionally, they were not, and if it weren't for him and his iron fist, they would all be dead.

They should be grateful.

"Behold," he said and swept his arm back, indicating the woman writhing upon the pole, "for the wages of sin is death. Take heed, all of you, for one day, it may be your turn to die this way."

"_GOD HELP ME!" _The woman sobbed irrationally.

She did not realize that God had already condemned her.

The crowd shuffled restlessly, eyes darting nervously to their leader, and a few to the woman, as if drawn unwillingly by her torment. "We stand poised on the precipice of a new era, an era of strength and stability." His voice boomed like thunder, and his people all turned their attention to him, rapt. Each one, in they own way and to their own degree, recognized his wisdom, and when he spoke, they listened. "We are but babes in the cradle, our legs shaky, our footing unsure, at this juncture we can _not _tolerate threats to our progress." He fisted one hand for emphasis. "We are too weak, too small. We are a flickering flame. We must protect that flame at all costs, for if it goes out, _we _go out. One day, if we work hard and work _together, _we will be a raging inferno, and _nothing _will be able to stop us. Do not let that flame die, do not let _us _die."

The crowd stared, spellbound like Judean simpletons caught in the inexorable pall of a prophet who has seen God and can prove it.

Then, coming alive, they began to clap and cheer, a thunderous din of approval and swearing of allegiance that washed over their fearless leader like a warm, gentle spring wind. Each one had already cast their lots it with Him, whether out of love, respect, or simple self-interest, but in that moment, their support solidified, and even if he did not know it, they were his...forever and ever more, amen.


	8. The War Room

Lisa laid a large sheet of paper on the table and smoothed it out. Lincoln, Lynn, Lana, and Laverne, the head architect of Bartertown after J. Harriman Loud himself, leaned forward. Lola stood to one side in a silky pink robe that stopped above her knees, arms crossed and worry pooling in her eyes. She didn't bother getting dressed or doing her hair; it fell freely over her shoulders like golden sunlight, knots and tangles here and there like blemishes on otherwise flawless skin. Leni stood next to her, hands behind her back and a proud smile on her face. She didn't quite understand what was going on, but she was pleased that Lola asked her to stay for an Important Meeting.

They were in the sitting room off the main hall, a wide, vaulted room filled with busts, bookcases, Victorian wingback chairs, and end tables. The carpet was forest green and the walls oak paneled, lending it the air of a 19th century gentleman's study. Mid-morning light pressed against the French windows; beyond, a green and well manicured garden stretched to the wall, which here was lined with leafy trees that swayed in the faint Mojave wind. Next to Lincoln, Lynn splayed her hands on the edge of the table and scanned the blueprints of Bartertown with a keen and critical eye, as though looking for weak spots in its defenses. Lincoln watched her from his periphery, trying and failing to read her expression. She knew better than anyone else what defending Bartertown would take - did she think it could be done?

"The wall is three miles in circumference," Laverne and tapped the sheet. A tall, dour woman with shoulder length blonde hair and a face like old, cracked leather, Laverne was a business partner of J. Harriman Loud's - how exactly she fit in, Lincoln wasn't sure. As they waited for her to arrive, Lynn told him that her real name was Shirley, and that she chose Laverne as a joke. He didn't understand, but apparently there was a sitcom years ago called _Laverne & Shirley. _

Hilarious.

"The west wall here -" she tapped a section of fence " - is the weakest. That dust devil last month compromised the foundation and we haven't gotten around to strengthening it yet."

Laverne headed the Bartertown Building and Maintenance Department, a ten women crew of engineers, many self-taught, that was responsible for the fence and all of the structures within it.

"How long will bracing it take?" Lynn asked.

The older woman pursed her lips in thought. "A week, maybe ten days."

"Shit," Lynn hissed, then looked at Lisa. "I want some of those bombs on that side. The long ones."

Lisa nodded.

Next she looked at Lincoln. "What are those ideas you mentioned?"

Her eyes were narrow with doubt, her brow knitted. Her skin, a light shade of sun kissed brown from the desert sun, was surprisingly smooth, but her expression was rough, and he couldn't help the sneaking suspicion that he could strike a match across her cheek. He went to her lips, a tight white slash across her features, and wondered, not for the first time, how they would taste.

Ignoring the intensity of her gaze, he said, "First, I want the children out of here as soon as possible. Is there a place we can send them?"

Lynn's brows twitched almost imperceptibly in surprise. She opened her mouth, but thought better of what she was going to say. A flicker in his eyes told him she agreed with him.

"There's a mineshift," Lola offered uncertainly, "we use it to store extra things."

"Surplus equipment and supplies," Lisa needlessly clarified.

Lincoln nodded. Lynn watched him with the close and careful viliagance of a woman in the presence of a crafty foe. Maybe it was his recent mood, but for some reason it irritated the piss out of him. "How far from here?" he asked.

The doctor replied instantly. "Fifteen miles north northeast. As the crow flies. Overland it's closer to twenty."

"Is it easily accessible?" he asked. "What's the terrain like?"

"Steep, hilly. When we transport things there, we have to park and carry them up a narrow path. ATVs or similar vehicles could reach, but nothing else."

Good. "That bus by the gate. Does it run?"

"Not much," Lynn said with a distasteful hilt. "Engine's shot and the brakes barely work. That's why it's there instead of the parking lot."

Shit. "Are there any other vehicles big enough to transport a large number of people?" He looked at Lisa. "How many children are in Bartertown?"

"Define children," Lisa said.

Lincoln started to respond, but stopped when he realized that that he hadn't thought of what constituted _children. _The first image to come to mind when he said that was of one five and six year olds. Lester, if he recalled, was fifteen or sixteen - a child by old world standards, but a man now, and needed to help defend Bartertown. Lamis was about the same age, and he'd want her here too - anyone who can hold a gun - but she had a baby. "13 and under," Lincoln said, grasping at the first number to come to mind.

"Twelve," Lisa said instantly, "I think. I'll have to consult the census report, but I'm fairly sure that's the correct number."

"What about elderly?" Lincoln asked.

Lisa flicked her eyes to the ceiling as she contemplated his question. "Again, I'm not sure. There aren't very many senior citizens here, as the majority didn't survive the Collapse."

That was true. In the days after the war, with the situation deteriorating, it became every man for himself, all the charity and altruism so prevalent in American society shrinking like a puddle on a hot day until there was nothing left but cracked pavement. A lot died off when the power went out and their life sustaining machinery would no longer function, while others fell later due to lack of vital medications or because they couldn't take care of or protect themselves. He tried to remember seeing old people on his admittedly few rambles through Bartertown, but the only one he crossed paths with was a man about sixty. "Alright, anyone who can't defend themselves, get 'em out. Let the parents of kids under….eight...go with, but everyone else has to stay. We need as many people as we can get for what we gotta do."

"What's that?" Lynn asked, a distrusting edge in her voice.

"Phase one, dig a trench around Bartertown."

His words hung heavy in the air, as though he had proposed something outrageous and foolhardy. Lynn's brows furrowed, Lola's foot, tapping restlessly on the floor, stilled, and Leni went on smiling. "We can't do that," Laverne said, her voice seasoned with shock, "t-the fence is three miles around, and all of our earth moving equipment is decommissioned. We'd have to do it by hand, and even with everyone working, it would take days."

Lincoln expected this. "How much do you think we can get done?"

She shook her head, lost, "Uh..._maybe_ half. I mean, we _might _be able to do it, but the soil's thin, and without any machinery it's gonna be slow."

"What about rocks? Any big rocks nearby?"

The only look he got at the surrounding area was yesterday when he climbed onto the catwalk running the top of the western wall. The landscape was flat and open in all directions, dry green creosote bush and wavering Mojave yucca. Jagged gray mountains thrust up from the earth far in the north, and low, sandy flatlands rolled away to the south.

"Some," Lisa said haltingly.

"Well, we put those where we can't dig. Close together so no vehicles can get through."

"How deep do you see this trench being?" Lynn asked.

"Four to six feet," Lincoln responded. He held up his left hand, palm vertical, then touched the fingers of his other hand to the heel, making a slanted, almost-V. Lynn studied it and scrunched her lips from side to side as though trying to decide whether or not his vision was feasible. "Make pikes or something and have them jutting out. The point is to keep the cars back and get Ginormous's men on foot."

Lynn's eyes widened as something occurred to her. "We got eight cars with roof mounts. We can take them off and put them on the wall." Lincoln recalled the vehicles lined up by the front gate, each of them sporting a .50 caliber machine gun on its roof.

"Makeshift flamethrowers are simple to manufacture as well," Lisa put in.

"Where do we put them?" Lynn asked Lincoln.

Across the room, Lola dropped into an armchair and said something to Leni, who rushed dutifully off. Lola's face was ashen and wan, as though entertaining thoughts and words of war was making her sick. "All around," he said.

"You think he's gonna move in from all sides?"

"That's what I'd do," Lincoln said. "Force the enemy to stretch himself thin and fight on multiple fronts. He has the manpower." He looked at the blueprints and sucked his lips in as he scanned the sheet. "He came from due west last time. Is his camp in that direction?"

"He moves around," Lynn said.

Ah, nomads. A lot of tribes kept on the go rather than settle down in one location. He heard from a man in Needles that vast armies waged endless war against each other in the Midwest, fighting for supplies and goods rather than territory - as soon as the battle was over, the victor forged ahead. The largest and most vicious was the Army of Excellence headed by a former army commander. Constant mobility gave you the advantage of unpredictability and made it hard for your enemy to sneak up on you.

He reasoned that if Ginormous's camp was in the west, the main thrust of his attack would come from that direction as well. If he was smart (and Lincoln assumed he was), he would concentrate the heaviest assault on one section of wall while using the flanking battalions to draw fire and cause casualties on the other sides.

When Ginormous and his men departed, they went back in the way they came. That didn't mean much, but it lead Lincoln to believe that they would approach from the west after all. "I think they'll focus most of their attack here," he said and tapped the thick black line denoting the western wall. "This is what we have to work hardest to protect."

Lynn leaned closer as if to see better, and her shoulder brushed his. Her natural scent washed over him and his heartbeat sped up like a boy in the presence of his crush. He shoved that aside and wrestled control of himself. She bent over the table and stared at the paper for a moment before turning to Lisa, her forehead crinkling questioningly. "Can you rig a car to blow?"

"Yes," Lisa replied, then, smugly, "with minimal effort."

"Remotely?"

The doctor hesitated. "Yes," she said grudgingly, "but that will take more effort."

Lincoln looked at Lynn. Though he couldn't be sure, he thought he knew where she was going with this. "You wanna stick some cars out there?" he asked.

"Yeah, maybe put them nose to nose," she said, "right in the way. If they try to drive through them -"

"Boom," Lincoln finished.

She grinned. "Exactly."

He returned her smile; coming in, he wasn't very optimistic about their chances of repelling the coming invasion, but now, he was almost certain they would. They commanded the metaphorical high ground, and once dug in, they'd be have little trouble keeping Ginormous's men at bay.

Just so long as they didn't have any heavy artillery.

His mind went back to the previous day, one of the marauders with a bazooka perched on his shoulder. Before the world ended, California and Nevada were home to countless military installations where Uncle Sam kept his favorite toys: Jets, tanks, Humvees, missiles, and entire underground bunkers stocked with rank after rank of nuclear warheads like bottles of expensive wine in a cellar. All of that stuff and more was still out there, just waiting for someone to come along and pick it up. God alone knew what Ginormous had up his sleeve - a scud missile with an A-bomb attached? Rocket propelled grenades? Sidewinders? He wanted Bartertown, its women, and its resources, so he'd send ground troops in first, but if he saw he couldn't take them, all he'd have to do is fall back to a safe position and shell them into the dust.

A knot formed in his stomach, and some of the good cheer ran out of him.

"What kind of firepower do we have?" he asked Lynn hopefully. "Anything big? Rocket launchers, landmines?"

She gave a sad, slow shake of the head, and Lincoln deflated. "We got pipe bombs," she offered, "that's pretty much it."

"I need more help, by the way" Lisa pointed out, "with it, I can produce a hundred more by sundown. "

Leni came in holding a tray and went over to Lola. She sat it down on an end table, picked up a teapot, and poured some into a glass. Lola nodded her thanks and took a sip. Lincoln looked down at the blueprints and sighed. He didn't know what Sir. Ginormous was packing, but he was confident that they could take him and his men in a fair fight. "We dig here," he said and tapped the west wall, then the east wall, "and here. We'll put rocks on the south and north side." He looked at Lavergne. "Does that sound like something we can do?"

"I think so," she said.

"Good," he said and glanced at Lynn. There was a strange and unsettling gleam in her eyes. It looked like...respect. He went from her eyes to her lips and back again. Her features were plain, but she was an attractive woman nevertheless. Their gazes locked, and something seemed to pass between them, a mutual feeling or thought, maybe, and Lincoln felt something in the center of his chest that startled him into breaking eye contact, a sensation that he had known only once before in his life, but was so distinct that he could never forget or mistake it.

He knew exactly what it was.

A click.

A _connection._

Lynn blinked and flicked her eyes to the paper.

She felt it too.

"Alright," she said, her voice not entirely even, "is that all?"

No one spoke.

"Let's go then," she said, "we have a lot to do."


	9. The Hills Have Eyes

**Guest: I may try something with the race-swap idea at some point.**

Lincoln Loud jammed the spade into the earth, leaned heavily on the splintered handle, and dragged the back of one gloved hand across his slick forehead. Next to him, Lester lifted a pickax over his shoulder, wobbled on bent knees, and brought it down in a shaky arc; the blade hit the hardpan and bounced. The boy let out a shivery breath and stood to his full height, the sun glistening on the sweat coating his pale, flabby torso. His face blazed an overheated shade of crimson and his dazed eyes swirled with exhaustion; his arms trembled and his breathing came in short, hot bursts that made the fat rolls spilling over his tight waistband lightly quiver like Jello on a pan.

They were on the outside of the western wall, a line of women working the hardpan with spades, shovels, pickaxes, post hole diggers, anything capable of turning the Mojave soil. They reminded Lincoln of convicts on a chain-gang, the kind you'd see breaking rocks along a road in 1936 Mississippi. The trench, three feet deep in spots, terminated where Lincoln stood; if he took a step to his left, the ground would crumble beneath his foot and spill him in.

He glanced at Lynn, who hunched over in the pit, the desert floor level with her hips. She threw a spadeful of dirt over her shoulder and it landed in a rapidly growing pile that stretched from here to the opposite corner of the fence. Lamis, Lucy, Leni, and several girls Lincoln didn't know (one as young as eight) shoveled it into carts attached to bored looking horses whose tails endlessly swished, stirring the stagnant air. Lynn came up with the idea of filling burlap sacks with displaced earth and using them as part of the defenses. She and Lincoln disagreed on how to incorporate them - she wanted them along the exterior while Lincoln wanted them _inside _the wall. _If they get in, we can use them to shield behind, _he pointed out.

_If we put them outside, _she argued, _we can _prevent _them from getting in. _She flashed a smug, pursed-lipped smile that was both cute and cocky...more the latter than the former. If she were a man, he very well may have ended up wiping it off her face. Since she wasn't, he resorted to verbal assault in lieu of physical. _A bunch of sand bags won't stop a monster truck. Use your brain. _

A shadow flickered across her face. _Alright, dumbass, you think they're gonna stop high powered rifle rounds? We might as well hide behind our faith in God._

_Actually, dummy, they will, if we use enough. _

Lynn's nostrils flared and the air between them tensed like the atmosphere ahead of a violent thunderstorm. His muscles twitched in expectation; he wasn't above hitting a woman if she came at him first. You wanna act like a man, I'll treat you like a man. She didn't launch herself at him with a primal scream like he anticipated, but when she spoke, her voice was low, menacing, and dripped with bellicosity. _You're a fucking idiot. Are you _trying _to get us all killed? _

Something in the way she said it, and the way looked at him with open accusation, gave him the impression that she seriously thought he was attempting to lead Bartertown to ruin. _That _pissed him off. An image of his daughter dying by the highway while he sat with her head in his lap, helpless and sobbing, came back to him, and his fingernails bit into the padding of his palms. Leni and her kitchen crew were nice enough, but virtually everyone else had been a complete fucking prick to him, including Lynn. _Especially _Lynn. Lola put him in a dog collar, but Lynn hit him when he was down on more than one occasion. Yet here he was, helping them fortify and risking his life to keep them safe. Not because of Lynn or Lola, but for all the little girls and boys - not for the sinners, but for the innocent, the ones who stood no chance against Ginormous's gang, the ones who could not protect themselves.

How fucking _dare _that bitch doubt his intentions for even a second. _If I wanted to kill you, sweetie, _he said, putting a nasty spin on the last word, _I'd just do it. _He poked her hard in the chest, and she slapped his hand away.

_Fuck you._

That was three hours ago, give or take, and though they'd been working side-by-side the entire time, they hadn't spoken to each other. Lincoln's anger had long since cooled; engaging in rote physical labor left his mind free to wander, and as he tossed clumps of dirt from the pit, he turned her position over and over in his head like a man examining the intricacies of something that appeared simple on first glance, but slowly proved to be more complex. Unless he was jumping at shadows and her barb was nothing more than a thoughtless jab meant to get under his skin (he didn't think it was), she didn't entirely trust him...which was reasonable given the circumstances. He was an Outsider...and one she and her people hadn't treated particularly well. She probably expected him to want vengeance.

And you know what? In another time and place, he would. If this Sir. Ginormous shit wasn't happening and the children of Bartertown weren't in danger, he wouldn't give one shit about any of them, and the first chance he got, he'd stick a knife into Lola's back and run. Hell, if it _was _happening and there were no children, he'd let the bastards goosestep in. He'd even greet them with bottles of wine and baguette the way the French greeted the Nazis. _I wanna be part of your gang, sir, _he'd say as he knelt before the black man. Then, the moment they weren't looking, he'd slink away and never look back. Lynn was a smart woman, she realized this. She did not, however, know the reason he wouldn't do that...couldn't do that.

His daughter.

To her, he was a hardened drifter with stubble, jaded eyes, and every reason in the world to want her and her people to suffer. She couldn't see into his heart, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to willingly _bear _it to her. _Hey, lady I barely know, I'm on the level cuz I'm wracked with guilt over letting my little girl die and I want to atone for it by not letting your kids die. _

That brought a harsh chuckle to his cracked lips. Was that really what he was doing? Trying to make up for his daughter's death? Hoping to ease his shame by keeping a bunch of kids he didn't know from dying like he let her die? He looked up at the marble blue sky as if for an answer, but the thin clouds sailed past without offering one. It _was, _he decided; he thought he could actually redeem himself. No matter what he did, though, his daughter was dead and he couldn't stop it. He couldn't bring her back...he couldn't compensate, he couldn't unshackle himself from it...he could only live with it or die _because _of it.

He called up a picture of every child he saw in Bartertown - smiling faces, shining eyes, happy, carefree, innocent. His stomach crumpled in on itself when he imagined what awaited them if Sir. Ginormous had his way. Tears, terror, death, and abuse of every stripe.

Maybe in a way he was trying for absolution, but the prospect of these children being thrown to the wolves made him sick, whether they were his or not, and whether saving them would save _him _or not.

Back to the point, Lynn didn't know any of this, so she was leery of him. Understandable, but exasperating nevertheless. It occurred to him to demonstrate his commitment somehow, but fuck that, he didn't have shit to prove - not to himself, not to Lola, not to the fat geek currently struggling to lift a fifteen pound pickaxe, and certainly not to Lynn. Screw her.

A vision came to him - her that morning when he and Leni went to hers and Lana's house, dressed only in panties and an oversized T-shirt that lovingly clung to her shapely hips. She wasn't wearing a bra; the soft swell of her small breasts, and her rigid nipples, were clearly visible under the fabric. Not very large, just big enough to cup and knead as his tongue grappled for dominance with hers and his other hand stroked her arched back…

Goddamn it, he was doing it again.

He sighed and looked around for something to distract him from thoughts of Lynn...her body pressed lightly against his, her tongue making love to his, her panties sliding down the curve her her thighs…

The tip of the ax hit the ground with a metallic _chink _and Lester grimaced_. _Sweat poured down his crimson body and his back heaved with every gasp. He dropped the tool and swiped his hand across his brow, his tangled hair brushing from his flushed face like a parting vail limpid and sodden with grease. Lincoln looked him up and down, tracing the folds of his fat. Maybe he had muscle buried under that blubber _somewhere, _but Lincoln sure as hell didn't see it. The boy swallowed hard and let out a breathy _uhh_. When Lincoln spoke, he jumped, his fat rippling. "You okay, kid?"

"Yeah," Lester panted and nodded quickly; drops of sweat splattered the dirt and the gray sheet of corrugated metal forming the wall's outer plating. He didn't _look _okay; he looked like he was going to pass out. Lincoln couldn't blame him; out of shape or not, it was hot, at least 110, and the sun pounded relentlessly down like a science fiction death ray. Lincoln's shirt was drenched and stuck to his tacky chest, and his skin stung from his face down to the backs of his hands. Lester's flesh, lily white when he stripped his shirt off and tossed it away, was now a light brown that put Lincoln in mind of a Thanksgiving turkey baking in the oven. He licked his lips and realized for the first time just how thirsty he was.

"You want some water?" he asked.

"Yes, please."

Letting the shovel fall over, Lincoln turned and grimaced at the pain in his ankle. It felt fine earlier, but all this digging was putting strain on it. In the trench, Lynn's spade scraped against a rock, and she sighed frustratedly. She laid the shovel aside, dropped to her knees, and started digging the stone out with her hands. She wore faded blue jeans and a white tank top that rode up the small of her back to expose a band of warm, pallid skin. The straps of her black bra played peekaboo with the straps of her shirt like a battle of good vs evil, and her ponytail tickled the back of her neck as she clawed at the earth. She turned her head, squeezed her eyes closed, and pulled; her muscles strained under slick, sun bronzed flesh, and her freckled face clenched with effort. Lincoln stared down at her, his stomach reeling back and forth like a storm battered sea. Annoying bitch who liked hitting someone when they were down and couldn't defend themselves or not, Lynn was beautiful.

He went back to the sensation of connection he felt with her in the sitting room. He'd only ever experienced something like that once...with his wife. He was certain from the alarm in her eyes that Lynn felt it too. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes later that they had their argument in the courtyard fronting the palace. If he was a deep and analytical man, he'd say that both he and Lynn were afraid of that binding, and sought to push the other away under the pretext of fighting over sandbags...or maybe they were feeling each other out, like two animals circling each other in a snowy glen before pouncing one another in an explosion of primal passion...but he wasn't, he was a drifter and sandnigger (per Lola), so he wouldn't say shit and worry about it later.

The rock came loose and tumbled down the side of the trench in a cascade of dirt, leaving a large crater behind. Lynn hanged her head and fought to catch her breath. Her ponytail fell limply to one side as though in exhaustion; sweat rolled down the back of her neck and shimmered in the sun. Lincoln imagined slowly grazing his fingers over her wet skin - the way she'd purr and tilt her head back, reveling in his touch, breath catching when he -

Son of a bitch. Really, Lincoln? You have to do this right now? Man up. He bit down hard on his bottom lip and drew a breath through his nose. Right. "You want some water?" he asked.

She whipped a quick glance over her shoulder, her eyes not meeting his, then looked hurriedly away again - if she didn't, she might never look away again.

"Yeah," she croaked dryly, her gaze fixed on the rock - as long as she was looking at that, she wasn't looking at him. Did she picture herself touching _him? _Did she catch herself wanting to kiss him and think _Jesus, Lynn, cut it out? _A wounded pang tore him at the thought that maybe she didn't...and his heart sped up because maybe she did.

Shoving that aside, he limped over to the water cooler, orange with a white top and IGLOO across the front. It sat on the open tailgate of a dented Ford with Nevada plates. Leni leaned into the open passenger side, took something out, and walked over to one of the carts backed up to the mound, where Lucy and Lamis were filling burlap sacks with dirt. Lincoln grabbed a cup, filled it, and drank it at a draught; it was cold and sweet and good, and he had two more cups, stopping only when a spike drove into the middle of his forehead. He filled two cups, one for Lester and one for Lynn, then started off but stopped when Leni spoke behind him. "Hi, Lincy!"

He turned, and she beamed proudly. Her dress was covered in dust and dirt smudged her delicate cheeks like that black shit football players rub under their eyes before a big game. She stepped over a pile of dirt, glancing down at her feet to make sure they didn't tangle in the hem of her dress, and came over. "Do you want some jerky?" She held up a stick of dried meat and shook it enticingly back and forth like a woman offering her doggy a treat. Offense gripped Lincoln's chest, and he took a deep breath. Leni had been nothing but kind to him; she didn't mean anything by it. He was sore, tired, and on edge, that was all.

"No thank you," he said.

She frowned. "When's the last time you ate, Lincy? You didn't touch your breakfast _or _your dinner. You're, like, gonna waste away." The urgent, childlike worry in her voice touched him and he flicked his eyes to the jerky. He couldn't remember when he ate last - coyote meat back at the car? That seemed like so long ago, but couldn't have been more than two days.

No, he had something yesterday.

Leni's brow knitted with concern and she pouted her lips, putting him in mind of a puppy dog begging for something - a treat, perhaps, or to be walked. "Yeah, okay, I'll take it," he said, simply to please her.

And it worked. Smiling broadly, as though him agreeing to eat just made her day, she thrust the meat stick out, and Lincoln took it, being careful to avoid brushing her hand. Cocking her head to one side, she grinned devilishly, then stroked her pinkie fleetingly across the heel of his palm; his heart staggered like a retard on an escalator and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Her eyes shone with devious intent and one corner of her mouth curled knowingly up. Lincoln took the jerky and flashed a polite smile. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," she said and allowed her gaze to travel slowly up and down his body. He looked awkwardly at his feet; a tiny scorpion scuttled through the dirt, over a rock, and behind the Ford's back tire.

Before he could devise an exit plan, Lucy called out and Leni sighed.

"I have to go now," she said with a hint of reluctance.

"Alright. It was nice seeing you. And thank you for the jerky."

Leni's smile widened, all warmth and innocence now, with none of the carnal edge it held a moment before her features hardened ever so slightly, and she jabbed one stern finger at him. "I want you to eat all of it, Lincy," she commanded. "Okay?"

"I will," he promised.

"Good," she said, then grudgingly turned and picked her way back over the dirt pile. Lincoln's eyes went to her butt; he couldn't see much under the loose material of her dress, but it wiggled nevertheless, the way a doe in heat shakes its rear to attract mates...its dank, wild smell scenting the air like a flashing neon sign. _Come breed me. _

Lincoln forced a chuckle and turned away. This is what going too long without a woman (or masturbation) does to a man - gets him thinking funny things and bothers him until he takes care of it. Later, he told himself as he clamped one end of the jerky between his teeth. Picking up Lynn and Lester's cups, he went back over, every step sending a red bolt of agony up his leg. Lester sat Indian style on the ground, head hung and shoulders rising and falling like a tempest tide. Lynn leaned back against the wall, arms dangling at her side and her head thrown back as if in bitter defeat. Lincoln's shadow fell over Lester and the boy looked up. "Here," Lincoln said and held out the cup. Lester reached out one trembling hand, took it, and slammed it like a frat boy at a kegger, some dribbling down his chin and onto his heaving man breasts. Lincoln turned and offered Lynn hers. She pushed away from the fence, took it with a muttered _thanks, _and drained it in a single gulp. Lincoln's eyes started to go to her breasts, but he yanked them away and sent them instead down the line. A dozen red, sweaty faces greeted him, grimly set; metal striking earth, dirt flying over shoulders.

"What do you see this looking like when we're done?" Lynn asked windedly and gestured to the trench. "Spikes and stuff?"

Lincoln nodded. "Yeah. We put them on the far side, in front of the wall, and have them pointed out. Make it impossible for cars to get through." He turned his head up to the fence. Three .50 cal machine guns commandeered from the cars by the gate pointed out into the badlands. "Anyone comes this way, it's gonna have to be on foot, and with those things, they won't get far." He looked down the line once more. Around the corner, unseen, women loaded boulders into carts, then set them in front of the wall in an evenly spaced row, so close together that even a motorcycle would have trouble passing. Another group of women were digging on the east wall. The front, where the gate was, would have to be left largely clear. Inside, women were busy bracing the fence with timbers and adding extra steel plating to the preexisting structure. Most of the .50 cals - five total - were also on that end, along with two homemade flamethrowers Lisa and her team whipped up. They were currently trying to develop a rudimentary rocket launcher to shoot pipe bombs, but she seriously doubted it would work.

Lynn crumpled her cup and chucked it away, her hands going to her hips. She surveyed the trench, considering his vision, then nodded. "Yeah, I can see that. The front's what worries me." She turned to the front corner and and nervously crossed her arms.

Despite the extra firepower and fortification, it worried him too. An idea came to him. "Lisa said she can rig the bombs to blow by remote, right?"

Lynn hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. "A few, I think. What'cha got in mind?"

"Bury a couple," he said, "cover them just enough no one can see. When people or cars get too close, hit a button and watch the fireworks."

She contemplated that a moment. "We couldn't have them too close to the wall," she said obviously.

"No shit," Lincoln said more acidically than he meant. Did she think he was stupid? "What's the blast radius of a standard pipe bomb?"

Lynn bunched her lips to one side and furrowed her brows in thought. Nothing about her, from her toned arms to her jaded eyes, screamed cute, but that's the only word Lincoln could come up with: Cute. "Not much," she admitted, "shrapnel's the main thing we gotta worry about."

"Right," he said. He didn't know much about explosives, but he he did know that pipe bombs don't produce a big, flashy ball of death like they do in the movies; their main purpose was to spray enough steel, tacks, ball-bearings, what-the-hell-ever to take out multiple people. Grenades operated on the same principle - the blast is designed to propel jagged pieces of death and _not _specifically to cause a large flash. "So...fifteen feet out? Twenty?"

Lynn thought for a moment, then turned to him with a nod that rusted her ponytail. "Yeah, that sounds about right. We could _maybe _bring them in a little closer, I just don't wanna fuck up the wall."

On the ground, Lester raked his fingers through his tangled hair, and down the line, someone called out for water. Leni floated over to the tailgate, filled a cup, and brought it to them like Florence Nightingale tending to the wounded of war. "We have most of the .50s over there. We can give the people on that side most of the bombs too. We should be good."

"You think so?" she asked and looked at him. She didn't mean to, but she imbued the question with an urgent inflection, as though she needed reassurance.

"I do," Lincoln said, and almost put his hand on her shoulder.

She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out slowly. "Alright," she said, then grinned and swatted his chest with the back of her hand. "Back to work."

* * *

"_Please...please, let me down." _

Sir. Ginormous looked up from the map spread out before him and glared at the open tent flap. It was mid-afternoon and hot, the sun's fiery rays bathing the desert floor like clay in a kiln. No breeze blew, and sweat sheened the black man's hard, rippling muscles. He sat at the scuffed and weather-stained desk, Chandler standing on one side and Needles, one of Ginormous's top lieutenants, on the other. Two other men stood across the splintered plain. One was named Rusty, after his long, flowing red hair, and the other was called Fang. The former wore a black patch over his missing right eye, a black tank-top, and desert brown camo pants tucked into brown combat boots - he was a Hell's Angel with a rap sheet from here to Sacramento before the Collapse: Assault, attempted murder, drug manufacture and sale, rape, and arson. The latter was short and petite with scraggly black hair and a splotchy attempt-a-beard. His own defining feature was his razor sharp wits and his mouth full of even sharper metal teeth, hence his name.

Prior to the Collapse, Fang was a Santa Monica P.D. beat cop who, Ginormous suspected, was corrupt. He didn't talk much about his past, but mentioned savagely beating several people _for shits and giggles_. Ginormous couldn't help thinking that at least one of them was black, if not all. His outrage at Fang's possible racism was tempered by respect: A man who can crack heads and laugh about it was just what he needed at this point in time. Further down the road, after they took Bartertown and beat the women into submission, Fang would either suffer an accident or quietly disappear. There is a time for everything...and that extends to certain people. Winston Churchill was a fine wartime Prime Minister, but he was not suited to lead in peace. Similarly, men like Fang were useful now, but would present a liability once _Watu _was on its feet. Rusty would likely meet with a similar fate.

Ginormous was composing a list of things to do immediately upon seizing Bartertown when Chandler came in with Rusty in tow. Ginormous was mildly surprised - and very perturbed - to see the ginger. Rusty was one of three scouts he sent to keep watch on Lola's community, and his presence here told him that there was trouble.

_Looks like they're getting ready for a fight, _he said.

Leaving the other two spies behind, he walked three miles to his dirtbike, concealed behind a boulder, and drove the rest of the way. _Digging a big trench and putting big rocks along the wall. _

Rusty produced a series of Polaroid pictures he snapped before leaving. They were shot from a distance and blurry, but Ginormous could make out a line of women toiling in a long pit; in another, pick-up trucks and horse-drawn carts flanked one of the walls, a rank of massive boulders standing against the plating, so close they almost touched. _They were stringing barbed wire and jamming metal poles in the ground when I left, _Rusty said.

_Chandler, _Ginormous said, ignoring the scout, _bring me the map. _

He called Needles and Fang in - he trusted them more than anyone aside from Chandler - and put each in charge of their own battalion. Chandler would command a third, and Ginormous the final. They would move in from all sides like a noose tightening around Bartertown's neck. The trench and rock barriers would present a problem for most of the vehicles at their disposal, but there was one that would get through with ease. Taking a pencil, he drew arrows on the page, each one pointing at Bartertown. Next, he added, horizontal lines to denote men and cars. _Chandler, you come from the north, _he said, _Needles, east, Fang, south. I'll advance from the west with Abe._

Chandler cracked a cold, tight-lipped smile at the mention of Abe. If Ginormous was God, Abe was his Leviathan, a fearsome being only he could control...and despite his power, even he had but a tenuous hold on its might.

_When I get through, _he mused, _they'll either run for their puny lives or be drawn to me, leaving the walls defenseless. That's when you come in. _He looked at Chandler, Needles, and Fang. Each man nodded that he understood.

He was hoping to avoid a fight - every flying bullet and blasting bomb threatened the structures, livestock, and gasoline he so wanted, but also the women he _needed_ \- but Lola forced his hand. He would use this opportunity to demonstrate his strength and determination. He would make Lola into his dog, massacre all of their children, and crucify a dozen of their numbers...after executing the wounded, of course. He would give them no mercy and no quarter; once they saw how serious he was, how _strong, _they would fall into line.

If he was really strong, he told himself, he would nail their leader to a cross as a warning to the rest. His infatuation with her was well-known among her people - if he killed her, they would know how deadly committed he was. He could not, however. He wanted her for himself, wanted to rut violently into her, to taint her purity and make her bear his children. He wanted her by his side, to hold her hand and to hold _her. _That made him weak, but every great man is entitled to one or two weaknesses. A leader such as himself has earned them; everyone else has not.

Presently, the voice came again, a long, low, moan full of lament and pleading. Ginormous looked back to the map, scanning the lines and arrows like a Civil War general planning a pincer attack against rebel scum. He looked for weak spots, but there were none - he was a God, a Genius, and a Sage, and his plans were always, _always, _foolproof.

A high, haunting shriek filled the world, setting his teeth on edge, and he looked up again, rage igniting in his chest. Rage at being disturbed, rage because her cries reminded him of his momentary lapse in control that morning, and rage at the very faint guilt nestled in his heart. The scream rose to fever pitch, wavering and straining, then cut off, only to come again. It was a pitiful sound, and Ginormous's stomach clutched at the accusation he heard in its tone.

Pushing roughly away from the desk, he got to his feet, grabbed his cape from the back of his chair, and hurriedly knotted it around his neck. Chandler and the others followed him in a neat, single-file line without having to be told to. The sun stung his eyes and he lifted his hand to shield out the glare. Ahead, the woman hung from the stake where he'd left her. A buzzard perched on the top, its head back and its beak working as it chewed something. His gaze went to the woman's face; blood oozed down her cheeks from one gaping eye socket, forming at her jawline and dripping onto her breasts in fat, red droplets. People passed quickly by, their eyes firmly averted. Ginormous felt a rush of shame at her suffering, and drew a deep breath.

One hallmark of a good leader, and a true man, is compassion. He would end the poor wretch's torment. "Chandler," he said, and the boy perked up like a dutiful manservant, "build a pyre."

Chandler nodded and rushed off. Twenty minutes later, a heap of sticks, kindling, brush, scraps of wood, and gas soaked rags sat at the foot of the cross. Ginormous lit a torch, aware that his people were watching him.

The woman thrashed when he approached, her one eye wide with terror and seeping tears. "NO!" she screamed and tried to shy away.

Holding the torch aloft, the crackle of the flames loud in his ear, Ginormous took a step forward and favored her with a pitious glance. He wanted to leave her hanging until sun poisoning, dehydration, and the heat did her in, then leave her up a few days longer, but this was so much more humane. "I forgive your crimes," he said as though she had committed many instead of none, and the taste of the lie on his lips made him frown. "Rest, my child. Be at peace."

He dropped the torch onto the kindling, and it caught with a hollow _whuff_. Fire spread across it and raced up the stake in long stalks, licking her toes like pervert fetishists. She howled, and her skin started to blister, then to blacken. Thick white smoke filled the air, and with it the sickly-sweet odor of roasting flesh. Ginormous took a calm step back and watched her face twisting in agony. Fire crept up her naked body, engulfing her legs and the precious commodity between her thighs. Ginormous sighed in somber regret. He was sorry that it had to be this way and that a woman with so much potential and societal worth had to die, but sometimes you must do things whether you like them or not.

She took a deep breath and let out a blood curdling shriek filled with pain, hysteria, and terror. The flames adhered to her body like glue, streaking up over her breasts and igniting her hair. She whipped her head back and forth and arched her back as though begging God to take her spirit and spare her further pain.

God, however, ignored her entreaties. Her flesh, once smooth and soft, puckered and shrank on her charing frame, melting off in sludgy rivulets; her burning hair seemed a hellish crown, Satan blocking his bride for their infernal wedding night; and her remaining eye popped from the heat and leaked down her red, raw, blistering cheek like snot.

The smell of burning flesh was stronger now, pinching Ginormous's nose and turning his stomach. He turned, and a smattering of people watched from in front of tents and beside cars; in their eyes, he saw reflected his own guilt...and, perhaps, their personal accusation. Ducking his head, he brushed past Chandler and stalked back to his tent in a demonic swish of cape. The woman's dying screech, like a cat being slowly gutted by a dull, rusty blade, rang in his head for a long, long time.

* * *

The late afternoon sun sat low over the rugged mountaintops defining the western horizon, its scarlet light spreading like blood across a patch of fabric. Shadows crept tentatively across the desert floor like timid phantoms testing their newfound freedom, and the north star twinkled knowingly, as though giving tacit approval to the designs of the coming night. A light easterly wind blew out of the foothills and ruffled the scrub carpeting the ground. A black-tailed jackrabbit jumped onto a stone lying upon a slope overlooking Bartertown, its amusingly long ears twitching and its nose sniffing the air. Two miles due west, a mule deer looked nervously around, its beady black eyes settling on the setting sun. Something moved in the dense mesquite, and the deer tensed. A tiny gray cactus mouse emerged, its whiskers feeling the air, and froze when it spotted the deer. They regarded each other warily, then the mouse darted back into the safety of the brush.

Despite its harsh, arid climate, the Mojave Desert supports an abundance of wildlife, from lowly scorpions to predatory bobcats and coyotes. Wild burros, also called feral jackasses, cluster along the rushing Colorado River, which winds through the extreme southeastern badlands of California, their territory extending down into Mexico and up to San Bernardino. Their numbers had more than doubled since the Collapse, and now they roamed freely along overgrown surface streets and through neighborhoods gone to seed. Wild horses made their home in the hilly grasslands of the Owens Valley, where bunches of pinyon-juniper cover north facing slopes. Like their distant cousin to the east, they had experienced a population boom and spread out from their natural habitats. Bighorn sheep were also common in the mountains around San Bernardino.

Many of those animals kept to the semi-arid western steppes bordering the deeper desert. Only the hardiest of creatures ventured far into the wasteland. Bobby Terry Parker, thirty-five and gangly, was one of them. He was born in a little town outside San Bernardino but moved into the depths of the Mojave as a boy. He fell in love with its stark, clean beauty, and never felt quite comfortable outside of it, the way a man might not feel completely at home in a country that was not his own. It was his land, and no one knew or loved it better.

Sitting with his back against a boulder and his knees drawn up to his chest, clad in tan pants (to match his surroundings) and an olive green vest over a faded flannel shirt, a dirty baseball cap with DICK'S SPORTING GOODS on the front shielding his eyes from the sun, Bobby Terry opened a package of Doritos, took one out, and crunched it between his teeth. They expired six years ago and tasted like cardboard, but he was hungry, and like his mama used to say, beggars can't be choosers. Next to him, Ratty Hernandez knelt and lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Short and swarthy, Ratty wore tan pants like BobbyTerry's and a brown leather vest over his naked torso. A blue kerchief covered his black hair and fluttered in the wind. "What are they doin' now?" Bobby Terry asked and shoved another chip into his mouth.

They were on a high ridge far to the east of Bartertown. From here, it reminded Bobby Terry of the anthills he used to kick as a boy.

Ratty shifted positions and lifted up a little to get a better view. Rusty told them to stay put and out of sight until he got back, but Bobby Terry was starting to wonder if he'd even _be _back; he'd been gone for close to three hours which is _far _more time than he needed to report back. Most likely, one of those Bartertown bitches got ahold of him somehow and put a bullet in the back of his head. "Looks like they're puttin' people on that bus," Ratty said uncertainly.

Bobby Terry furrowed his brow and looked at his comrade. "On the bus?" he asked.

"That's what I said," Ratty replied.

"Let me see."

Bobby got to his knees, took the glasses, and held them to his eyes. In the distance, Bartertown came into focus, looking for all the world like one of the prisons he did time in with its forbidding walls and makeshift tower. A deep trench guarded by spearlike pikes, both wood and metal, and barbed wire, ran along the eastern and western walls. The front, which directly faced Ratty and Bobby Terry's position, was free of obstruction, the gate open and the road leading away clear. A yellow school bus sat just inside, people standing around it and others climbing on. What the hell were they doing? Running away? That didn't make any sense - they spent all day putting up all those barriers, why would they do all that just to up and run?

Next to him, Ratty trembled with energy like a transformer box steady humming. "I think they're gettin' all the kids out."

A woman clutching a little girl's hand stepped onto the bus, followed by an old man carrying a boy about three. Bobby Terry jerked the binoculars to a man and woman standing beside the door, the former's hair the color of ash and the latter's cheeks splattered with freckles. She wore a submachine gun on a strap and turned her head to the man when he spoke. Bobby Terry couldn't read lips, so he didn't know what he was saying.

"Where they gonna send 'em?" he asked and lowered the glasses.

Ratty grinned deviously. "Right into our waiting arms."

Bobby Terry frowned. "What?"

"We follow 'em," Ratty explained, "stay in the desert, get ahead of 'em...then strike."

Understanding dawned on Bobby Terry, and his eyes widened. "N-No," he said and shook his head. There was a fearful inflection in his voice that made him sound like a pussy to even his own ears. "Rusty told us to stay put."

Bobby Terry wasn't the smartest man ever (he also wasn't dumbe neither), but he knew that you never disobey a direct order from a superior if you liked not being caned, whipped, or nailed to a telephone pole and left to rot. Maybe in the old days they'd give you slap on the wrist and a couple days in the brig for that kind of thing, but this wasn't the old days.

"Aw, come on," Ratty pressured, "think about it. We stop 'em, kill 'em, take a few prisoners...we'll be fuckin' heroes. We might even get promoted or somethin'."

Bobby Terry nervously licked his lips. He was right, they _would _be heroes if they could capture a few women alive, but they might still get in trouble. The thought of getting into the big guy's good graces was appealing, but the thought of getting on his bad side turned his blood to ice water. He saw what happened when you crossed Sir. Ginormous, and it wasn't pretty. Or worth taking a risk like this. Rusty told them to stay here until he got back. If he wasn't back by dark, well...they could go home on their own, but that was different. "I ain't doin' that," he said. "The risk ain't worth the reward. I'm happy bein' what I am." _And not havin' my head cut off, _he thought but did not add.

"Yeah, I'm not," Ratty shot back. There was a rigid hierarchy in the group, with Sir. Ginormous at the top and guys like Ratty and Bobby Terry _way _down at the bottom. Their official "rank" (cuz the Big Guy had a military fetish or some damn thing and everybody got one) was _enlisted man_, which was kind of the default. They got shit for rations, slept all crammed up in an A-frame pup tent like a couple queers, and always wound up doing the dirty work none of the higher ups wanted. Bobby Terry, dig a latrine, Bobby Terry, fill this bucket with water at the river two miles away and bring it back, Bobby Terry, take that body offa that cross and bury it in the desert. It got frustrating sometimes, but they had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and a camp doctor to keep them healthy. That's a lot more than most people had; Bobby Terry knew that first hand. Before, he was in a group that settled on the north bank of the Colorado, where the land grades gently down to the river's edge and the still water is impossibly blue. They got by on hunting rabbits, mule deer, and bobcats - if you hurt yourself, you better hope God healed you, because no one else would. Bobby Terry saw a man break his leg then wind up crippled on account of the others setting it wrong.

Ratty might not appreciate what he had, but Bobby Terry did.

Although, being a higher rank _did _sound nice now that he was thinking about it. The ranking guys got more (and better) food, bigger tents, and women. There weren't very many girls in the group, and the Big Guy only let the brass have them. Hell, if you were up the totem pole enough, you could basically pick any woman you wanted, since having sex with you was her duty. The Big Guy himself said _men need to get laid every now and then or it affects morale_ \- only he said it much fancier. They let guys like him and Ratty have a girl on occasion, but it was usually one of the jailbirds they kept in cages. Bobby Terry didn't like them because they were camp property...everyone got a turn. There was even a waitlist and a guy in charge of handling it. By the time your number came up, she'd already been fucked twenty times that day. She'd press her ass resignedly to the slats and you'd take your thing out and pump her, all the while trying to keep it up and not make eye contact with the clerk who monitored the whole time to make sure you wore a rubber and weren't too rough on her.

Yeah, being bumped up would be great and all, but Rusty told them to stay where they were. He said as much, and Ratty rolled his eyes. "I'm tellin' ya, man, we do this, Rusty's not gonna _care _we broke orders. In fact, it's gonna make _him _look good too. Win-win-win."

Bobby Terry took a deep breath. Ratty was probably right, but there was a lot at stake here.

He mulled it over for a moment, then glanced indecisively at Bartertown, nestled in its valley like a bug in a rug. "Plus," Ratty said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "after we take 'em prisoner, we can do whatever we want to 'em." A suggestive inflection crept into his voice, and he flashed a toothy grin,

It was clear what he meant by _anything_, and Bobby Terry's stomach fluttered at the implications. A smirk he couldn't suppress touched his lips, and Ratty chuckled. "Eh?" the Hispanic asked and nudged Bobby Terry in the ribs. "Eh?"

Throwing caution to the wind, Bobby Terry nodded. "Alright," he said around an evil smile, "let's do it."


	10. Killers on the Road

Lynn tapped her index finger against the MP5's trigger guard and gazed up at the wall as a line of people waited to board the bus. The driver, one of her security agents, took everyone's name as they boarded and compared them to a list of all the children in Bartertown and their primary caregivers. There weren't very many two parent households, but in the rare cases that a child had a mother _and _a father (or two mothers), only one was permitted to go. Lynn didn't like the idea of breaking up families, but Bartertown needed to keep as many of its defenders as possible.

Next to her, Lincoln flanked the door, his arms crossed over his chest and his back resting on the bus's side. His face, always a light shade of sun baked brown, was even darker now, and tinged with red. She furtively watched him from the corner of her her eye and desperately sought something - a nervous tick betraying malicious intent, perhaps - to quell the strange feeling in her chest...strange not because it was unfamiliar to her, but strange because she should not be feeling it for someone she barely knew.

Trust.

It was odd, inexplicable, and downright scary, but she was beginning to think that maybe she could trust him. Earlier that morning, it occurred to her that he might be using this as a cover for enacting revenge on her and or Lola. After spending the entire day with him and watching his every step, gesture, and facial expression (especially when he took his shirt off), she didn't think that anymore. She wasn't prepared to fully accept him as a member of the team, of course, but she honestly believed he was being truthful - for some reason, despite everything they'd put him through over the past twenty-four hours, he actually wanted to help Bartertown. Why, with all they'd done to him, she couldn't say. Maybe he thought about Lola's proposal and decided to take it after all; maybe he was hoping to stay while _not _doing it, who knew?

She tapped the metal faster. Whatever his motivations were, he didn't pose a danger to her or her people.

That assertion, budding within her like spring flowers even now, bothered her - did she think that only because she was kind of attracted to him? Was her judgement clouded again? Objectively, he hadn't done anything to earn her confidence beyond making a few plans and helping dig a hole. Was that enough to warrant letting her guard down...even a little? It should count for _something, _but...gah, she was so confused.

In her periphery, Lincoln darted his eyes down to a little girl holding her mother's hand. She stared up at him with big, inquisitive blues, and he flashed her a brisk though genuine smile.

"You're old," she deadpanned, and Lynn snorted.

The little girl's mother shot her daughter a dirty look. "Lunesta, that is _not _nice."

Lincoln smiled tenderly. "No, it's true. I _am _old."

The person ahead of them made their way up the stairs, and they followed, the little girl staring intently at Lincoln until they were out of sight, as though he were shockingly aged. Lynn studied his face and tried to see what Lunesta did; very faint lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, but other than that, he didn't look old at all. Nor, for that matter, did he look young.

He turned his head and caught her looking, and for some reason she flushed. "I could have taken her," he said in jest, "I'm just resting up for tomorrow."

"I don't know," she teased, "I think she could hold her own. With that bum ankle of yours."

Lincoln nodded grimly, like a man admitting to an embarrassing and uncomfortable fact. "The one I twisted when you shot me. Yeah."

"You went for a gun," Lynn replied dismissively.

"What would _you _have done in my situation?" Lincoln asked.

She didn't have to think about her response. "Gone for a gun," she said with a nod.

Lincoln lifted one hand, palm facing up. "There you go,"

She looked at him. "What would you have done in _my _shoes?"

He replied just as quickly as she had. "Shot your ass."

"There you go," she mocked.

The line moved forward as the people inside the bus made their way to their seats. At the very end, Lester stood next to Lamis, who clutched their son Lexington to her chest. The baby was wrapped in a white blanket with just his pink face and dark eyes peeking out, and Lynn was reminded of a burrito, which brought to a wan smile to her lips.

Lamis's face was a mask of worry and her throat visibly bobbed as she swallowed. Lester stared straight ahead, anxiety simmering in his eyes; Lamis was going to the mine with Lexington while Lester was staying. They needed every pair of hands they could get for the coming battle and couldn't spare him.

Lincoln's idea was to have six guards accompany the children and their guardians to the mineshaft, and for her and him to escort the bus in one of the cars. Lynn had Lana take down the names of every caregiver to a child below fourteen in town: Eleven. The number of adults, including the guards, taken out of the fight was seventeen. That might not seem like a lot, but when your ranks are scant to begin with, it's far too many. They didn't have much of a choice, though, they couldn't leave the children undefended.

The baby thrashed and let out a low gurgle; Lamis absently bounced him, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. Lynn could only imagine what she was feeling right now...stepping onto a bus and leaving her husband and the father of her child behind, possibly to die in battle. She frowned, then when she glimpsed the unshed tears standing in the girl's eyes, a lump of emotion formed in her throat and she looked away.

The line shuffled forward again, and Lester and Lamis reached the door. She turned to him and pressed her quivering lips together, the tears dislodging now and sliding down her cheeks. The baby wiggled and tried to work its arms free from its cocoon. Lamis bowed her head as if to look at the little boy, but Lynn suspected she did it so she wouldn't have to look at Lester. "I'll...I'll see you tomorrow," the boy said, his voice flat and unconvincing. Lamis nodded curtly and sniffled; it was clear that she didn't believe there _would _be a tomorrow.

Lester hesitated, then took her in his arms and hugged her fiercely. The baby, pinned between his mother and father, writhed harder, in alarm or excitement, Lynn couldn't tell. "I love you," Lamis said. She looked up at her husband with earnest intensity.

She meant it. A year ago, she and Lester were practically forced into an everlasting union like two Barbie dolls being knocked against each other by a megalomaniacal little girl, and yet, she had come to genuinely love him. If the gentle look in his eyes was anything to go by, he loved her back.

Something about that touched Lynn deeply; her eyes welled and she forced herself to look away.

"I love you too," Lester said and kissed her forehead. He stepped back and smiled sadly down at his son. The baby gaped back as if in surprise, then a big, gummy smile spread across his face. Lester leaned over, pecked his brow, then lovingly stroked his head, his fingers brushing over sparse, wispy hair. "I love you," Lester said.

Lexington kicked his legs and let out a breathy pant.

Lamis lingered for a moment, looking at her husband with hangdog eyes, then turned and boarded the bus. Lester took a deep breath, sucked his quivering lips into his mouth, and blinked back tears of his own. The look of loss and desolation in his eyes was too much, and Lynn almost walked away...to remove herself from the heartbreaking scene or to shed a tear in private, she wasn't sure. The only thing that stopped her was Lincoln's voice. "Hey," he said to Lester. The boy jerked a glance at him, and Lincoln hooked his thumb over his shoulder. Lester's brow knitted in confusion. "Go," Lincoln said.

For a moment, Lester didn't move, his brain processing what Lincoln meant, then, when it sank in, he flicked his eyes to the door. He favored it for a moment, longing in one eye and shame in the other, then, ducking his head as if against glares and accusations not being hurled, he scurried onto the bus. Lynn looked at Lincoln, and though his face was stony and emotionless, she could sense that he was affected too.

He caught her staring again, and turned his head away...almost like he was embarrassed by what he did. "Kid's too fat to fight anyway," he said, a slight tremor in his voice betraying him.

Lynn didn't know why, but that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time. "Yeah," she agreed, suddenly warm and tingly, "he's a loser."

"Not cut out for this," Lincoln stated.

"Nope," Lynn said, then, to lighten the mood, "but neither are you."

Lincoln snorted. "I proved I can take a shot," he said, "all you proved is you're a big woman behind a gun. Bet you'd get your ass handed to you in hand-to-hand."

That made Lynn laugh. "Ooookay," she drew sarcastically, "at least I can do hand-to-hand. You'd try and your ankle'd snap like a twig." She leaned heavily to one side and deepened her voice. "Ow, my ankle snapped like a twig. Help me, Lynn."

He chuckled richly. "Maybe you'd call for help, but a _real _man dies in silence."

"You didn't die in silence when I shot you," Lynn reminded him.

Lori and Luan appeared down the street walking side-by-side, both carrying submachine guns on their chests and AR-15s over their shoulders. Lynn assigned them to the detail guarding the bus even though they were two of her best fighters and sending them away from the fight stung. She very briefly considered sending Lana to get her out of harm's way, but Lana was hands down the best Lynn had.

She also kind of, you know, just wanted Lana with her.

"Yes I did," Lincoln said.

"No you didn't."

"Yes, Lynn, I did," he said, stressing her name and all but throwing up air quotes.

"No, _Lincoln, _you died like…" here she assumed the most stereotypical gay-man lisp she could muster, "fuck you, bitch."

"That's not how I said it."

Lynn cracked a mischievous grin. "So you admit you said it."

He opened his mouth, realized his mistake, then closed it again and looked away. "Got'cha," she said.

Lori and Luan came up and stopped to await orders. Lynn looked around, but didn't see any stragglers. She brushed past Lincoln and leaned into the bus, one hand braced against the frame. Lachonne, a tall, muscular black woman with dreadlocks, sat behind the wheel. The air inside was hot, stagnant, and smelled of rot and mildew. "That everyone?"

Lachonne picked a clipboard up from her lap and scanned it. "Looks like it," she said. She handed it to Lynn. A row of seventeen names greeted her, each one checked off save for LORI and LUAN.

"Alright," Lynn said and gave it back. She stepped aside and looked pointedly at Lori and Luan. They got on, and the folding doors closed with a rusty creak. Lynn started for the cars by the gate, and Lincoln followed without being told to. "We'll take the one the end," Lynn said and dug out a keyring. "It's mine," she added with a hunt of pride.

A battered black two door 2010 V8 Mustang with spoilers, wheel arch flares, blowers, side-pipes jutting out from under the driver side door like the curled legs of a dead spider,, and rust-spackled booster tanks fitted into the trunk, Lynn's car was the strongest, fastest, and all around best in the wastelands, of that she was absolutely certain. It took her, Lana, and Luya the mechanic eight months of work, but the reward was _sooo _worth it. She glanced at Lincoln to see if he was impressed, and the slight nod of his head told her that he was; he was a lot like her, not very expressive with his emotions. Some people wear their heart on their sleeve, but Lynn had never been that way - Lincoln, she felt, hadn't either.

She remembered the weird _click _she felt when she locked eyes with him in the sitting room that morning and faltered. She spent a good portion of the day ignoring it, bit now that it was at the forefront of her mind...actually, no, she didn't have time for this right now; she and her people were in the middle of a fight for their very way of life, everything else could wait. She needed to be clear-headed and alert, not thinking about Lincoln, being afraid for Lana, or worrying over the future.

Letting yourself become distracted at a time like this is how you wind up getting you and everyone you love killed.

Inserting the key into the lock, she turned it and opened the driver door. Lincoln went around the other side and waited for her to unlock it. She slipped in, started the ignition, and thumbed the unlock button, then fiddled with the air conditioner. He pulled the door open and leaned in, sweeping the interior with an appraising glance. Leather upholstery, LCD soundsystem, shotgun in a rack between the seats, CB radio, pine tree air freshener, and enough cup holders to accomodate all of Bartertown. Lynn couldn't help beaming at his approval. "Sick, huh?" she asked.

"No bad," he said and climbed in, "not bad at all. Looks a lot like my car." He pulled the door closed. "My _old_ car," he amended.

The bus's engine sputtered and caught with a wheezing cough; it backfired, and thick black smoke belched from the exhaust pipe. Lynn snapped her seatbelt on and laid her hands at ten and two on the wheel. "That why your ankle's messed up?" she asked. "Your car?" The way he corrected himself suggested it hadn't been his _old _car for very long, so it stood to reason that it was connected to his injury.

"Yeah," he said, "I totalled it."

The bus idled in place, shudders going through the frame, and Lynn's stomach twinged with suspense. She expected it to backfire again and stall, but instead it rolled forward and turned ponderously toward the gate. More smoke rolled from the exhaust, the acrid smell penetrating into the closed car and pinching Lynn's nose. It passed, gaining speed, and disappeared through the gate, jostling as its big, bald tires dipped into potholes and craters. Lynn had a bad feeling it wasn't going to make it all the way to the mineshaft.

Putting the car into drive, she pressed the gas and followed, the engine purring like a sleek big cat stalking through a rainforest. She pulled out of the gate and slowed; in the rearview mirror, one of the guards drew it closed, and several others watched from the catwalk. Ahead, the bus moved along the narrow dirt road leading to Route 9. Open desert stretched away on both sides while ahead, rocky hills loomed over the valley. "How'd you do that?" Lynn asked. "Wreck your car?"

The road rounded a barren hillside in a wide curve, then dipped down into a dry creek bed before sloping up then evening out again. "I wasn't watching where I was going," Lincoln said.

Lynn couldn't tell if he was being facetious or not. "Yeah?" she asked patronizingly and glanced at him. "Why weren't you watching where you were going?"

He took a moment to think before replying candidly. "I was mad."

She arched her brow. "Mad?"

He nodded. "Mad. Some guys were chasing me down, so I ran one off the road and got behind the other. He disappeared around a bend and I went after him only to find, uh-oh, smash-ip."

Lynn winced. "Ouch. Didja hit it head on?"

"Nah," he said, "I swerved, went through the guardrail, dropped, like, thirty feet. Well, I hit the _ground _head on."

A forest of squat, stubby Joshua trees spread out on the right, and a steep rock face loomed from the left. Up ahead, a scenic vista opened up: Rolling hills dotted with scrub brush, sandy plains fronting craggy mountains, and lonely telephone poles marching along the narrow two lane highway. "Jesus," Lynn breathed, mortified, and looked at him, her eyes sweeping up and down as if in search of abrasions and fractures she may not have noticed before. "And you walked away from it?" There was a note of disbelief in her voice. There was a knot above his right eye and a bruise on his cheek, but that, even combined with the ankle, wasn't much.

"I limped away," he said humbly, "but yeah."

She remembered the bullet Lisa dug out of his shoulder. "That where you picked up the slug?"

"Yeah," he nodded and glanced at her, "that's why I was mad. Bastard put a hole in my jacket."

Lynn gaped at him...then laughed deeply. Wow, she'd seen some tough guy hand waving in her time (she'd done some herself), but that took the cake. Someone shot him and he played it off like he was worried about his coat. Inexplicably, she was reminded of the time Lana gashed her arm open on a serrated piece of metal while they were putting up the north wall. She and Lynn were carrying a sheet from a pick-up truck to the construction site and Lana tripped over a rock. A corner caught her skin and cut a deep, jagged line from her wrist almost to her elbow. She hissed...then insisted on working. _It's just a scrape, _she said dismissively; rich, red blood gushed down her arm in torrents and splattered the ground. She didn't want to admit she was hurt because the tough don't _get _hurt.

The road filtered out onto the highway, which ran east to west out of the foothills at a steep angle. Weeds grew up between cracks in the pavement and thin layers of sand lay across it here and there like salt spilled from a shaker. The bus turned right and started down the grade.

"Your jacket, huh?" she asked.

"You try finding a leather jacket these days," he said. "The stores are all out."

Lynn pulled onto the asphalt and started after the bus. "I haven't been to any stores in a while," she said. "We used to raid the Walmart in Staunton but we eventually ran out of stuff to take."

"Ah," Lincoln said, "I see. You picked the place clean and didn't leave anything for anyone else. Nice."

Lynn shrugged one shoulder. "Fuck anyone else. We needed it, we took it. You should have been quicker."

"Your selflessness knows no bounds," he snarked.

"For my people, yeah," she said through her teeth, suddenly and insoluble offended. They were messing around, she thought, but did he really think she was a selfish bitch? Really? She wasn't...and the implication that she was pissed her off. All the more because deep down, she suspected that she was. "We're trying to build something here," she explained with tense patience, "maybe you're happy wandering through the wastelands and eating dirt, but I'm not. I want a _life_. That's what we're going for in Bartertown, and I'll do whatever it takes to make sure it happens."

She anticipated a swift and biting retaliatory strike, and was surprised when he tilted his head to one side and said, "Alright."

"Alright?" she asked. That's it?

He nodded. "Yeah. Alright. Can't blame you for that. Lots of people wanna start over. Like Sir. Ginormous."

And there it is. Lynn's hands tightened on the wheel and she forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. "We're nothing like him," she said, voice strained, realizing even as she spoke that they kind of were...at least what he'd seen of them. That wasn't the full picture, but if all you see is bad, bad is all you know. "How Lola did you was wrong, okay? I didn't think she'd put you in a collar and make you drink out of a dog bowl. I agree we need people to make a better society. Maybe the way we're doing it isn't the best, but it's for the greater good." The words tasted sour and clunky in her mouth. Did she really believe that? She _thought _she did. Let's face facts, they needed men, and what man would turn his nose up at being accepted into a fully functioning society and asked to have tons of sex?

Guys loved that kind of thing. They might not all be shallow - of course some, maybe even most, wanted the same love affection, and partnership that women did - but men were specifically designed by evolution to have a stronger and more liberatine sex drive than women to decrease overselectivity and encourage a higher rate of conception. Women, on the other hand, evolved to be more nurturing - homebodies with a biological drive to love and care for their young.

You can decry traditional gender roles all you want, but they formed over centuries for a reason. In an advanced civilization like the United States pre-Collapse, you could be a liberated feminist and choosy about who you mated with, but things were different now. In the span of a year, the world was set back centuries, and all of the luxuries the modern world enjoyed were stripped away. Whether someone was rich or poor, they lived a life of decadence and excess…like a sailor on shore leave pissing through his paycheck. They had endless options and total freedom. Now, they weren't thriving the way they once were, they were _surviving, _and that requires a lot of sacrificing.

People in the old days were self-centered hedonists grown fat and complacent on the fruits of their ancestors' hard work. They didn't have to hunt and gather and make hard choices because someone already did all of that for them. They were frozen in indecision by a neverending wealth of choices: Twenty different brands of toilet paper, fifty different matches on their E Harmony profile, everything from sandwiches to dates to clothing made to order and delivered right to their door.

She vaguely recalled the story of Noah from the Bible; God flooding a cruel and wicked world for its sins. If He existed, He did it again, only this time it was famine, pestilence, and death that drowned the people, not water. Weren't those three of the four horsemen of the apocalypse? What was the fourth? She wracked her brain, and came back with war.

War was the fourth horseman.

Fitting.

God, in His heaven, saw the world, and it was _not _good. He waved His hand and cast it back to the Stone Age like a frustrated gamer hitting the RESET button. All the work humankind did over 2000 years was gone in less time than it takes for a baby to be born, and all of those people whose ancestors did everything for them suddenly _became _their ancestors. All their ways were rendered old and obsolete. They couldn't be picky anymore, they no longer had all those creature comforts, both internal and external; they couldn't pass on every prospective partner for not being perfect, because in this life, you come to realize you need _someone_ to love and to love you; they couldn't do what they wanted when they wanted, because the group _had _to come first. Bartertown, like every other community, was still on shaky ground. One wrong move, and it could come crashing down like a wobbly tower of Jenga blocks.

Lynn fancied herself strong and tough, but she missed the world...for all its flaws, it was better than what she had now. She wanted it back, but better, and being back at square one with everyone else, that wasn't a misty and idealistic pipe dream, it was possible. They could remake the world, but this time...they could get it right. No more war or racism or any of that other crap that made the old world such a miserable shithole.

Things could be different this time.

When she said she was willing to do whatever it took to make that happen, she meant it. She was prepared to ruthlessly quash every threat (even if it were to come from Lana) and to open her legs for a man, any man, if it was necessary.

To her mind, it was. In twenty short years, Bartertown could be a sprawling metropolis with a sizeable population...no longer weak and on uncertain footing, but strong and proud. All she and the other women had to do was find men and breed with them. Sex to other people might be a scared and holy institution, but to her it was a simple bodily function. She didn't want to do it with just anyone, of course, but if it had to be done, oh well. She wouldn't wrap herself in moralistic posturing or sicken herself with anxiety because _golly gee, no rose petals or candles, how horrible. _

We are born to breed. Lynn firmly believed that the meaning of life was to create and sustain life, like a self-feeding fire growing and growing and growing. She'd been with men before, ones she loved or thought she did at the time, and knew what she liked - gentle affection and earnest intimacy. Those two things are what she sought in a relationship, but sex, as far as mother nature was concerned, was not about love and closeness - it was about feeding cords of wood into the fire and keeping it from snuffing out. Love didn't make the world go 'round, nor did emotional fulfillment. Having children, protecting them, and sending them off to repeat the cycle did.

Love, she suspected, was a mere chemical reaction in the brain to encourage people to stay together after sexual satiation, as it took two parents to raise a child and make a life.

Identifying a sickness did not preclude one from contracting it. She felt love, and did not, she thought, go out of her way to avoid it or reject it as beneath her. That's to say, she was of two minds. She, like anyone, wanted, deep down, a soul mate, but she was not a hopeless romantic or a fairy princess waiting in a high tower for her Prince Charming...and her Prince Charming alone. She could separate sex from love in the interest of becoming pregnant and helping to reestablish her race. If whoever she eventually did this with was a man she loved, and who loved her back, great. If he was nothing more than the village sperm donor, oh well. She was strong, she could get by.

A vision of Lamis and Lester at the bus flickered across her mind. When Lola first came up with her plan to repopulate the world, the only viable male in Bartertown was Lester. Mr. Wilson, sixty-five, had a vasectomy twenty years ago and thus couldn't reproduce, leaving Lester the sole suitable bearer of potent sperm in fifty miles. Lola wanted him to eventually impregnate "at least a half dozen women," but chose Lamis to start with since they were close in age and even Lola was a little unsettled by the idea of making a fourteen-year-old boy have sex with grown women...at least until he, as she said, he was "broken in." Lester and Lamis were not in Lynn's purview, so she did not pay attention to them or their relationship. She heard from Lisa that Lester was nervous before they were together, and Leni mentioned Lamis being _kinda scared and stuff. _They were not, Lynn thought, attracted to each other at first - they were two people forced into pragmatic copulation at the behest of their leader and, indirectly, by the needs of their people. Yet...somewhere along the way, they fell in love. Maybe without Lola's plan, it would have happened anyway, or maybe it was like a tornado, forming under meticulous and exacting circumstances that included Lola's plan. Maybe falling came naturally, or maybe it was something they had to work at. Perhaps Lamis figured that she would simply make the best of her situation, and gave Lester her heart consciously. Lynn didn't know, but they were making it work, and in a way, Lynn envied them.

In the passenger seat, Lincoln stared out the windshield at the back of the bus and nodded to himself as if to music Lynn could not hear. "Look, I get it, okay?" he said and tossed her a quick glance to show her his understanding. "Everyone does bad shit to get by now and then. You know what they say about making omelettes, right?"

Lynn did. _If you wanna make an omelette, you gotta break a few eggs. _

"If it wasn't me, I wouldn't give a shit, but it is and I do."

Lynn sighed. "Why, though? I get it, we basically kidnapped you -"

"Basically?" he asked archly.

" - and it's like you're a prisoner or something, but what other reasons do you really have to fight against his? Look at me. Dude, I don't know you but…" here she flushed and choked… "it's what's gotta be done, you know? I'm fine with it. Most everyone else is -"

He cut her off. "I'm not most everyone else. If I was a normal guy, yeah, I'd be all for it. Bartertown looks nice and so do most of its women." He spoke evenly and without the slightest trace of self-consciousness...something Lynn admired. "I'm not, though. I can't stay in one place -"

"So do it and go," she said. "We can raise kids without you around." That sounded a little callous, so she added, "no offense."

"You probably could," he said, "but I'm not a fucking piece of shit, okay? If I make a kid, I'm gonna be there for it. I couldn't do anything else...which is why I can't do _this." _

Lynn opened her mouth to ask why not, but a revelation broke over her like a blinding ray of sunshine shooting from a break in dark clouds. She remembered the wistful, faraway expression in his eyes when he looked at the children of Bartertown, how adamant he was with Lola about not having children, and how focused on getting the kids out of harm's way. Those things on their own didn't strike her as especially notable on their own, but together, they formed a mosaic of his mind...and his heart. One that was obviously paternalistic."You had kids, didn't you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He made no outward sign that her question brought painful memories other than a deep intake of breath through his nose. Gaze fixed unwaveringly on the back of the bus, he nodded. "Yes," he said flatly, "I had a daughter. She died. That's all you need to know." He looked out the side window, and though nothing about him had changed, Lynn imagined she could feel great sadness wafting from him like a cold, bitter tomb wind. She blinked as though she'd been smacked and turned quickly away, a steely fist of sympathy clutching her chest.

It all made sense now, and Lynn's stomach turned sickly. "I'm sorry," she said. The words felt trite and small, but she didn't know what else _to _say. He had a child once and something happened to her...now he didn't want anymore...probably because losing her hurt too much and he was afraid of feeling that pain again.

"Yeah," he croaked, "so am I. You see why I don't wanna do it?"

She nodded instantly. "I do," she said around a clot of emotion. Self-loathing welled within her and she started to say she was sorry for putting him in this situation, but didn't trust herself to speak. She'd never had children so she didn't know what it was like to lose one, but she imagined it was the worst pain in the world...the kind of relentless agony that stays with you for the rest of your life, always below the surface, thinly scabbed but never fully healed, easily ripped open again...say, by a cold, pragmatic bitch wanting you to produce more kids, more risks for feeling that pain again, requesting it with the cool, apathetic detachment of a wholesaler asking a farmer to grow more potatoes.

Remorse gripped her and for the first time in her entire life, she was truly and honestly disgusted with herself.

"I can't go through that again," he said, and the pleading quality of his voice broke Lynn's heart into pieces. "Maybe it wouldn't happen but I don't wanna find out. I barely did it once, I couldn't do it again." The last statement came smoothly but seemed to Lynn a difficult admission. She confessed her weaknesses with the physical pain of a woman passing kidney stones, and could only guess that Lincoln was the same way. That he did it, to someone he barely knew, who had been heartless to him in pursuit of her own ends...no matter how noble...and that he made it look so easy impressed her...and made her feel even worse. "I lost everyone I loved," he confided, "and I tried to be a nonchalant son of a bitch, but I'm not, I care about people, like I care about the kids of Bartertown. If I don't keep on the move, I start giving a shit, and that sets you up for heartache. I can take a lot of shit, but not that….not that."

"I understand," she said, and even though it hurt and even though it felt like too little, too late, she added, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," he said, "you didn't know, it's _my _deal." He sighed. "I just can't."

"I get it," Lynn said, then surprised herself by making a vow...and meaning it. "You don't have to." She turned to him and their eyes fleetingly met before he looked away. "If you wanna stay, you can, if not...you can go. Just...you don't have to do that."

She was even more surprised to find that she _very _much hoped he stayed.

"I don't know," he said noncommittally. From his tone, Lynn inferred that he _did _know. "We'll see after tomorrow."

Yeah, Lynn thought, see him walking away.

That image cut her like a knife, and she hated herself for it.

From there, they lapsed into uneasy silence, the only sound the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional backfire from the bus. Lincoln filled her periphery, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes on the road. He didn't want her pity...she knew that as surely as she knew _she _wanted no one's pity, but he had it whether he liked her or not.

She drew a deep breath and let it out in an even rush, only now realizing that she was gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. She loosened her grasp, and allowed her eyes to be drawn to Lincoln, letting them trace his strong jaw, calloused skin, and muscular forearm, resting on his knee. She wasn't big on tattoos, but he would look good with one.

Maybe her name?

That would have made her laugh or slap herself upside the head if it wasn't true. She could see LYNN on his arm and it filled her with warm, tingly happiness.

Sigh.

Okay.

She liked him.

Like...crush wise. No use in dancing around it like a little girl in denial.

There was also no reason to indulge it. More important things, remember? Plus...if they survived the coming battle tomorrow, he was leaving anyway.

She pulled her eyes away and pointed them at the road. It ran straight and narrow, slightly raised, the land sloping away on either side and blending with the sandy, scrub choked soil below. Weathered telephone poles marched along the gravel shoulder and dust disturbed by the bus's passage hung in the air like smog. A bullet riddled road sign listed distances to far-flung towns that existed in stark isolation even before the Collapse: Yucca Valley, Nipton, Tecopa, Shoshone, and Lava Falls. When she was in high school, Lynn and her friends would make yearly pilgrimage to the Mojave National Preserve for weekends of camping, backpacking, and drinking beer. The desert here was a lot like the desert in Arizona, but things were somehow _different _nevertheless - the animals, the vegetation, even the people. The moonscape draws weirdos, outcasts, and the mentally ill like moths to a flame, the seclusion a welcome respite from the rigors, demands, and judgement of civilization. Lynn herself often felt the call of the wild when the stress of her life got to her. Out here, in the desolate outlands, there were no teams to captain, grades to maintain, fathers to please, no one to let down or disappoint, nothing but you and total freedom from pressure and responsibility.

Some people could run away from their problems and live in the desert, like lonely vultures, but not her. The thought was tempting, like a siren's song to a love starved sailor, but she wouldn't be able to live with herself knowing that when the going got tough, she buckled. Maybe she was too proud or stubborn or both, but she didn't run, she stayed and fought to the very end.

The road bent to the left around a rock outcropping and low hills topped with clusters of scrub brush, purple sage, and Joshua trees lifted back on either side. The sun sat low on the horizon, its crimson light painting the sky a smoldering shade of red that never failed to stir Lynn no matter how many times she saw it. The bus was fifty feet ahead, maybe seventy five, gaining speed as it coasted along the gently slanted blacktop; it shook back and forth like a train car, and smoke billowed from the exhaust. Lynn downshifted and pressed the gas, the car accelerating with a low _vroom_ that made her smile despite herself. The gap closed, and she changed lanes just for the hell of it, the vibration of the car exciting her in more ways than one.

"It drives nice," Lincoln commented, breaking the pall between them.

Lynn smiled. "Doesn't it? Took forever to restore this baby. When I found her, she was rusted out and dead. I didn't do all the work myself, but I'm pretty proud."

"You work on cars?" he asked with a hint of interest.

"A little," Lynn said. "I was going to join the Marines and work in the motor pool. Figured fixing cars is one of those jobs that's never gonna dry up, you know?"

She didn't tell many people about her intention of enlisting - why would she? - but telling him came natural. It was also relevant to the topic at hand, so there was that.

"True," he said, then lifted his brow. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five," she said.

"So you weren't old enough to join before everything fell apart."

Lynn shook her head. "Nope. I don't know if I was going to anyway. I was kind of at a crossroads. Wasn't really sure _what _I wanted to do."

"End of high school?" he asked, and she nodded. "That'll do it. I thought I wanted to play guitar when I was seventeen. Didn't work out that way."

"What did you wind up doing?"

She didn't know why, but his response shocked her. "I was a cop."

"A cop?" she asked disbelievingly.

He nodded. "Michigan State Police. Three years."

She turned and surveyed him critically, as though with this newfound information she could pick out traits and tics that screamed POLICE OFFICER. His bearing, tall and solid, and the inner strength she sensed were pretty much it, though. He must have lost his badge and campaign hat in the accident. "Huh," she said and looked at the road again.

"What?" he asked, a jocular hilt to his voice.

"Nothing," she said.

"You think I'm lying?"

"No," she said, "I just imagined you having a different career."

"Like?"

She wracked her brain for something insulting and demeaning - in a funny way - and seized upon the first thing she came to. "I dunno. Dungeon master?"

His brow crinkled. "The hell's a dungeon master?"

"Dungeons and Dragons," she said and made a circular motion with her hand, "you know, the game."

Lincoln regarded her blankly, and she felt the urge to blush. "So you play Dungeons and Dragons, huh?" he asked, then shook his head sadly. "Just when I thought you were alright…"

"I don't play it, jerk," she said.

He thought she was alright?

The hills flanking the road pressed in closer and shadows flooded the valley. The sky was full red now, and with the blasted terrain, it reminded Lynn of pictures she'd seen of Mars. Lonely. Desolate. Foreboding. "Sounds like you do," he said. "I was fighting bad guys while you were fighting orcs."

She laughed. "Shut up, I was not. I played soccer."

"Oh, Mexiball. Okay. That's so much better."

Had she known him a little better, she would have punched him in the arm. Instead, she shot him a faux withering glare that was really hard to maintain. He held his thumb and forefinger to his forehead in the shape of an L, and she fought back a goofy smile. "You probably _were _a bad guy," she shot back. "Corrupt as hell, stealing drugs from the evidence locker, taking bribes."

Lincoln snorted. "Nah, not in Michigan. I was before I moved there. I started off in a place called Ferguson, but I shot some black kid and everyone started rioting. Had to change my name and move."

She was only vaguely aware of race riots in a town called Ferguson. That happened when she was a little girl. "Nice," she said. "Did he actually do anything?"

"He sure did. BBIP."

She squinted one eye. "What?"

"Being black in public."

"Ah. Okay. You were totally justified."

"I know," he said smugly.

"Hardened criminal right there."

"He was. Repeat offender."

Preoccupied trading quips with Lincoln, Lynn fell far behind the bus: It was a hundred feet ahead, and she pressed on the gas to catch up. She was almost a single car length back when Lachonne stamped on the breaks; the tail lights flashed red and the wheels screeched on the pavement. The frame shuddered and the bus came to a grinding halt the exhaust backfiring with a sound like gunshots. Lynn's heart squeezed and she braked, rolling to a stop. Smoke poured from the bus's pipe and Lynn sighed deeply. Damn it, she was afraid of this. "What's wrong?" Lincoln asked, craning his neck to see.

"I think they broke down," Lynn sighed and threw the car into park. She opened the door and got out, the dry desert heat washing over her like sandpaper. Lincoln didn't move for a moment, as if not sure whether he should stay put or not, then said fuck it and climbed out too. Thistle and scrub dotting the tops of the steep hills lining the road rustled in the desiccated breeze. Lynn slammed the door, the sound echoing erriely through the canyon, and went around the front of the car, where Lincoln stood with his hands on his hips. The bus's side door opened and Lori stepped out, followed by Luan. "What is it?" Lynn called.

"Couple dirt bikes in the road," Lori said. "We just gotta move them."

Lynn started to reply, but caught flash of movement from the corner of her right eye. In the brief second before Lincoln knocked her to the ground, she glimpsed a figure on the top of the hill.

It was holding something to its shoulder.

The world seemed to freeze...then slammed back into drive when the rattle of gunfire shattered the silence. Lynn hit the pavement, Lincoln on top of her, and Lori jerked as bullets tore into her chest. She fell back against the side of the bus and toppled to one side, red smearing the faded yellow paint. Coming to life, Luan turned, brought her gun up, and sprayed the hillside with a reflexive burst of suppressing fire.

Lincoln pushed off of Lynn and scrambled behind the Mustang's front end for cover; acting on instinct alone, Lynn rolled to her stomach and scurried after, bullets pinging off the car and the pavement around her. Lincoln leaned out, grabbed the back of her shirt, and pulled her to safety. Heart slamming, she got to her knees and kept her head low, her hands going to the MP5 dangling from around her neck. The fire stopped, and Lynn poked her head up just as Luan came around the side of the bus, her shoulders hunched and her knees bent. She fiddled frantically with her gun, as if trying to insert a fresh magazine or clear a jam. On the hill, a man popped out of a bush and took aim; Lynn started to call a warning, but he was already shooting.

_Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_

Luan spun, and in the instant before she dropped, Lynn caught a horrible glimpse of her ruined face: Jagged bone jutted through torn flesh, and bright red blood spurted from the wound. Lynn ducked seconds before a barrage hit the side of the Mustang; glass shattered, metal twanged, and puffs of dirt kicked up where the gunman missed. One of the tires popped with a hiss of escaping air and the car sank down a little. Lynn closed her eyes tight and gritted her teeth, counting the shots as best she could. The moment they stopped, she jumped up braced her elbows on the hood, and squeezed off a quick burst without aiming, her rounds digging into the hillside and chopping scrub to tiny pieces. On the hilltop, a figure darted out from a bush and rushed along the ridgeline, its body bent at the waist to make a smaller target of itself. Lynn swung the MP5 around and jerked the trigger. The world shrank away until nothing existed her but her her target. Pressing the stock deep into her shoulder, she stared down the sight, found her mark...then cried out in alarm when a round whizzed by so close she could feel the wind of its passage against her cheek.

She dropped behind the car and tucked her chin against her chest, her mind racing. How many gunmen were there? A dozen? Two? Were they Ginormous's men? She cast a worried glance over her shoulder, certain that a squad of shock troops would be making their way down the hill in full battle gear, but the day was alone, the sandy slope bathed scarlet in the dying light of the sun.

The gunfire fell off, and silence rushed back in, the only sound her crashing heart and her own ragged inhalations. Turning, she pressed her back against the tire and swallowed hard. The back of her neck tingled and her hands trembled slightly as she ejected the magazine. She reached for a replacement, but realized she didn't have one on her belt and cursed through her teeth. Lincoln got to his knees and pulled the driver door open, keeping low. "I need a clip," she said. "Center console."

He made no sign that he heard.

Tense, uneasy quiet held sway. Lynn glanced at the bus, but couldn't see anything through the grimy windows.

Lincoln pulled out of the car, a magazine in one hand and the shotgun in the other. He handed her the former and checked the breech of the latter. "How many did you see?" he asked.

"One," she said and jammed the magazine in, "but another took a shot at me." She pulled the bolt back with a metallic click and a round fed into the chamber.

"There's gotta be more," he said and pumped the forestock. He turned and slunk along the side of the car like Elmer Fudd hunting wabbits. At the back corner, he popped up, held the stock against his shoulder, and swept the hill with the barrel. Lynn turned and peeked over the hood, a lonely gust of wind sweeping through the canyon with a low, ominus moan and kicking up dancing swirls of sand. The ridge stood empty, the vegetation rustling...from the breeze or the movements of a hidden foe, she could not tell.

She jumped when the bus's rear door slammed open. Lachonne jumped out and whipped around the corner, throwing her back against the side. Luna followed and took up position next to her. Lynn flicked her eyes back and forth along the ridge. A bush moved, and she started to aim, but a round struck the bus, and she ducked. Lincoln slipped around the trunk, hugging tight to the bumper. He brought the shotgun up and pulled the trigger. On Lynn's other side, Lachonne stayed where she was while Luna scurried to the front.

A burst of return fire sounded, and Lincoln came back around the rear, hunching down. Bullets raked the car, and Lynn winced. The shooting stopped, and she aimed over the hood again. A man rushed along the ridge, and Lynn's heart jumped. She lined up the bead and fired; he tripped and landed hard on the ground, his gun flying from his hands. Savage satisfaction exploded in her middle like a bomb. Ha! Gottem! Lachonne spun in a semi-circle around the bus's back corner, lifted her AK-47, and laid down covering fire. Lynn slipped between the back of the bus and the front end of the Mustang at a crouch. On the other side, Luan lay humped on her side, blood leaking from her shattered cranium and soaking into the asphalt. Lincoln appeared on the other side of the car and leaned against the fender. He and Lynn looked at each other and he nodded, communicating what Lynn didn't know.

Lachonne's gun felt silent, and Lynn's ears rang. Without cover, she was suddenly aware of how exposed she was. She aimed at the ridge and frantically tried to pick out more enemies, but nothing moved, not even the wind. She could feel eyes on her - a steel band tightened around her chest and her skin crawled as if with scabies. Lachonne moved out from her position, keeping close to the bus, and down on the other end, Luna did the same. Lynn scanned the hill. Nothing. She knew there were at least two shooters, probably more. Only an idiot would attack a convoy by themselves, and only _two _idiots would do it without back up. Maybe they weren't expecting resistance and retreated. Her eyes went to the spot where the man still lay. It was possible another guy or two caught bullets and were dead or wounded out of sight; losing three fighters would be enough to give even a dedicated bandit leader pause.

She glanced at Luan again, and that momentary lapse of concentration, come at the wrong time, was all it took; she heard the shot before she felt it, a loud whip-crack report then hot, searing pain in her shoulder. She cried out and fell back onto her ass, the gun clattering rom her hands. Lachonne and Lincoln both aimed at a stand of bushes and opened up, a hailstorm of bullets ripping the leaves and interlocked branches to ribbons. Throbbing agony filled Lynn's head, and she pressed her hand shakily to the wound. Through excruciation slitted eyes, she saw someone stumble from the underbrush and start running. Lincoln took aim and fired; the man cried out and lost his footing. He dropped, then tumbled end over end down the hill, screams trailing behind him. When he hit the bottom, Lincoln jumped to his feet and rushed over; Lachonne advanced and covered him, her gun trained on the hill. "You okay?" she asked without looking away.

Lynn prodded the hole with her fingertip and hissed through her teeth. Pain swelled against her skull, and her stomach lurched violently. Lincoln knelt over the man, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and pulled him halfway up like a mobster demanding the money he was owed. He shook him, then let him drop. "It's just the two of them," he called over his shoulder. "It's over."

Lachonne slung her AK over her shoulder and got down on her knees next to Lynn. "Let me see," she said. Lynn allowed her to examine the wound, taking deep, even breaths and baring her teeth against the sickening pain. Cold numbness crept in like questing fingers and her heart pounded hard against her ribs. Was she going into shock? She heard this is how you feel when you go into shock, but she didn't know firsthand. She'd never been shot before. Shot _at _but never hit. Did the bullet go all the way through or was it embedded in her body? Was she going to die?

The thought of dying never bothered her before, but now that she was here, staring it in the face, dread and panic clutched her and she started to shake. Lachonne pulled her shirt down to reveal the wound. "Is it bad?" Lynn asked worriedly.

"I don't think so," Lachonne said.

Across the road, Lincoln stood to his full height, drew back his foot, and kicked the drowned man as hard as he could in the head. Lynn winced and imagined she could hear his neck snapping. Lynn had killed people...even people who were down...and never felt a thing. All for the greater good. Gotta suck it up and power through because everyone's counting on you. Right now, though, watching it done as she herself was possibly dying, disturbed her so greatly that she thought she was going to be sick. She closed her eyes and bore down on her teeth; blood surged against her temples and heat spread out from her wound in dizzying waves.

"How bad?" Lincoln asked. Lynn opened her eyes, and he knelt in front of her, the shotgun laid aside and forgotten. His face brow smoothed in concern and his lips turned softly down at the corners.

"Shoulder," Lachonne said, "in and out."

Luna came over and stuck her head in the bus's rear door. "Everyone okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," someone called.

Lincoln neverously licked his lips. "Is there a first aid kit?" he asked.

"Under the back seat," Lachonne said, then, to Luna, "grab it."

Luna leaned in, and came back holding a white box stamped with a red cross. She brought it to Lincoln, who took it and opened the lid. "How's the other girl?" he asked of Lori.

"Dead," Luna replied and crossed her arms as against a chill.

Sighing, Lincoln looked at Lynn. "How do you feel?" he asked, his tone cool and professional as he slipped back into the role of public servant.

"A little cold," Lynn said, trying her hardest to keep a quaver from her voice and largely succeeding. "A-And achy."

He took out a pair of blue Latex gloves and pulled them on. "Numb?"

She took stock of herself, a grimace racing across her features at the pulsing in her shoulder. "Not at the moment," she strained through her teeth.

Taking a bottle of water from the kit, Lincoln twisted the cap off. "Can you wiggle your fingers?"

She tried - they twitched and pain shot into her shoulder. "Ow, no."

"Alright," he said to Lachonne, "I need you to take her shirt off, okay?"

Lachonne nodded. "Lift your good arm."

Lynn obeyed, and Lachonne pulled it carefully over her head. The movement jostled Lynn's bad shoulder and she cried out. "Sorry," Lachonne said quickly, "sorry." She got on her knees, scooted behind Lynn's back, and gingerly drew the shirt down Lynn's injured arm. The scrape of fabric on the wound made Lynn gasp and tremble.

Yanking the shirt over her hand, Lachonne tossed it away. Beneath, Lynn wore a simple black sports bra. Lincoln's eyes went to the ragged bullet hole, and Lynn searched them for a betraying sign that would tell her his prognosis. He leaned over her shoulder and checked the exit wound, then settled back down. "You're lucky," he said, "it was a clean shot." He ripped open a package of sterile wipes, then looked at Lachonne. "Tilt her back a little."

Lachonne wrapped one arm around Lynn and guided her back against her chest like a mother enticing a cranky toddler to sleep on her lap. Lincoln hovered over her and Lynn tensed, hyper conscious of how helpless she was. Perhaps sensing this, Lincoln met her eyes, and under the dense cloud of pain, Lynn's heart skipped. "Relax," he said, his voice low and soothing. "I'm not going to hurt you."

She took a deep, shuddery breath and nodded. She believed him. He wasn't going to hurt her.

He tipped the bottle and a light fall of water cascaded over the lip. It splashed onto her wound and pain flared in her arm, streaking all the way to her fingertips and into her breast. She closed her eyes and clamped her teeth, trapping a moan in the back of her throat. Next, Lincoln ripped open a package of sterile wipes and gently dabbed the area around the entry wound with quick, surgical precision. Lynn opened her eyes to narrow cracks, and his face was pragmatic and devoid of emotion as he worked. He looked like he'd done this before and knew exactly what he was doing. The anxiety clawing at her chest lessened and her body-wide trembles petered out; her breathing, ragged and struggling to get away from her like a large, vicious mammal on a leash, evened out, and something like peace came upon her.

She felt safe.

She was going to be okay.

"Here," he said and handed another wipe to Lachonne, "clean the exit wound. The blood's still gonna come but we'll worry about that later."

Luna, Lamis, and a few other women from the bus stood over them now. Three guards walked a tight parameter around the bus, their guns up and ready to fire in case more gunmen appeared from the hill, but the rapidly fading afternoon was empty, the hills alone. A keen, involuntary gasp tore from Lynn's throat when Lachonne touched the pad to the exit wound; the edges of her vision tinged gray and fire engulfed the right side of her body. "Shit," she hissed.

"Sorry," Lachonne said.

"Now for the fun part," Lincoln said. Lynn looked at what he was holding and paled.

A bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Being active and adventurous, Lynn had suffered many cuts, sprains, and abrasions in her life, and the molten sting of alcohol had always been her least favorite part of the healing process. If it hurt on minor wounds like that, it would be hell on this.

It had to be done, though.

"This might -"

"Just do it," she said gamely.

"Okay," Lincoln replied. "Hold still."

She tensed her muscles and clenched her teeth in horrible anticipation. Lincoln laid a comforting hand on her opposite shoulder, and Lynn's heart skipped again at the warmth of his rough skin against hers.

Then the alcohol splashed onto her wound and everything else, including Lincoln's closeness, burned away in a flash of deep, marrow sizzling agony. She threw her head back and tried but failed to stifle a scream. Lincoln held a cotton ball to the bottle, wetted it, and handed it to Lachonne. The black woman took it without word and rubbed the exit wound. Lynn's back arched and she let out a long, hissing, "Shhhhhiiiiittt."

"Alright," Lincoln said and removed a gauze bandage from the box, "we're done. Just need to patch you up." He opened the packet, yanked it out, and pressed it against the wound. In ten minutes, Lynn sat with her back against the Mustang's grill, lumpy bandages covering both the entry and exit wounds. Lincoln knelt by the front passenger tire, the car jacked slightly up and the bullet flattened wheel lying in the dust. She watched from the corner of her eye, her mind sluggish and her body chilled despite the wool blanket around her shoulders. Ranks of pallid purple, orange, and red colored the evening sky, and the wind, so recently hot, blew cool against her sweaty forehead. Lincoln dropped the lug wrench onto the ground with a muffled thump, wiped his arm across his brow, and picked the good tire up, his muscles flexing. Lynn stared, detached, then flicked her eyes to the other side of the road, where Lori and Luan lay stretched out side-by-side, a second banket covering their heads and chests. Lachonne, Luna, and one of the other girls, a Hispanic woman, moved them from the highway. Lincoln mentioned putting them in the back of the Mustang and bringing them back to Bartertown. There was a cemetery in an= semi isolated corner where the west wall met the north. J. Harrison Loud and a half dozen other people were buried there. That number would increase by two tonight.

A shiver ran through Lynn and she hugged herself, barely aware of the fiery pain in her shoulder. Lincoln fitted the tire on the axle, picked up the lung wrench, and spn the screws into place. Done, he got stiffly to his feet, dusted his hands, and came over. Lynn glanced at him as he sat beside her with a weary groan. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Tired," she said honestly. The adrenaline that sustained her through the fight and the immediate aftermath had departed, leaving her empty and drained. She lifted her hand to brush her bangs out of her eyes, and sucked a deep breath. Ow. Gotta remember to use my left arm. She pushed them aside and ran her fingers through her sweat dampened hair.

"Welcome to the wonderful world of being blown away," Lincoln said archly, "refreshments are over there."

"I don't like it," she said, hating the whine in her voice but unable to stop it from coming.

Lincoln shifted uncomfortably, as though discomfited by her pain. "Yeah," he said, "it's not fun. When we get back, we'll have Lisa check you out." He looked around, spotted Lachonne, and pushed to his feet. "You wanna help me with them?" he asked and nodded to Lori and Luan.

Lynn averted her eyes as they carried the bodies over and slipped them into the Mustang's back seat. The shakes came back and settled into her bones like damp cold and she hugged herself tighter. She'd seen a lot of people die over the years, people she knew and loved, and while it bothered her, in her present state, she couldn't stop thinking about how quickly it happened. One minute, Lori was there, alive and well, then the next, like snapping your fingers, she was gone, just like that. Did she even realize she was being killed? Did she feel the bullets tearing into her body...mincing her organs...or did the world go suddenly and inexorably black?

And afterward, dead and cooling on the ground...what happened to her? Not her mortal flesh, but to _her, _the woman within? Lynn didn't believe in God, but she didn't actively _disbelieve _in Him either. If she meditated on the concept long enough, she began to think that He _must _be there in Heaven, for death couldn't be the true end. Lori, who laughed, loved, and playfully rolled her eyes at the mention of Lola, whom she hated, simply couldn't be _gone_. Her father and everyone else couldn't have snuffed out like candles in the wind...they had to exist _somewhere_. The spark of life is a special thing...and special things don't just stop being.

They _can't_.

One day..._she_ couldn't stop being. Heaven, hell, Toledo, Ohio...she had to go somewhere...not into the cold, yawning void of non-existence.

Life is special, but it is also fragile, and today, she came close to finding out what lies beyond the veil of death first hand, to discovering what secrets the grave held...or did _not _hold. Had the bullet hit five inches to the left, it would have torn out her throat. A little higher, and it would have done to her what it did to Luan. Lynn trembled and tightened her hold. Was it her imagination, or did she see dark understanding in Luan's eyes? She couldn't recall, but her mind convinced her that she did - in the split second it took her to spin and fall, Luan knew exactly what was happening to her...knew that she was going to die.

How long did it take for shadows to steal across her vision? How many eternal seconds did she lay in the dirt, like an animal, staring up at the evening sky waiting to pass away...how many prayers did she recite, how many memories flashed through her dying mind?

Tears welled in Lynn's eyes and she bowed her head against the racing thoughts, but they kept coming, each one increasing the pressure in her chest until she could hardly breathe.

When Lincoln spoke, she jerked in surprise. "Ready?" he asked. She looked up at him, and his face wrinkled in worry. "Hey," he said softly and dropped to one knee. He reached tentatively out, seemed to think better of it, then went ahead anyway and laid his hand on her good shoulder. Even through the blanket, his touch was warm and comforting. "You okay?" Her gaze was drawn to his, and the tender solicitude she saw in his eyes - as though he really and deeply cared - was enough to push her over the edge. She bowed her head and the dam burst, all of her fear and misery flooding from her in a bitter rush. Lincoln's hand went to her slick cheek, then he shifted and sat next to her, taking her into his arms. She didn't resist, instead, she buried her face into his chest and let the tears come, her shoulders shaking and pitible sounds breaking from her throat.

Lincoln pressed her head to his breast and gently stroked her hair, his fingernails grazing her scalp and sending electric crackles racing through her stomach. The sound of his steady heartbeat filled her head, and she unconsciously snuggled closer to its soothing rhythm, the rise and fall lulling. She shook with the power of her sobs, and her arm throbbed hotly, which made her cry even more. Lincoln brushed his fingers through her hair and sushed her. "It's okay," he said, and though it may have sounded contrived coming from anyone else, from him it was the total and immutable truth. It _was _okay...because he was here, and in his arms, nothing could hurt her. Not bad guys who wanted to take everything she worked so hard to build, not the monstrous torture in her shoulder, not even the creeping specter of Death itself. She was strong...but even the strong get weary and need someone to lean on...and sometimes, it felt really good to be held.

Her tears gradually tapered off, and she realized she was desperately clutching the front of his shirt, hanging unashamedly onto him for strength and reassurance, her head nestled in the shallow valley between his pecs and his calming, masculine scent filling her nose. His arm circled her shoulders and he absently ran her hair through his fingers as if relishing its softness. She closed her eyes and basked in the tranquility of his motions, her lips parting and her heart staggering drunkenly against her ribs. She released his shirt and pressed her palm flat against his chest, the shape and warmth of his rippling muscles making her breathing catch. Lincoln caressed his thumb over the ridge of her cheekbone, his skin lightly skimming hers and sending pleasant shivers down her spine. She moved her hand over his heart in a slow, appreciative circle and looked up at him. He stared down at her with needy eyes, and her core pinched urgently when she recognized the same thing in him that she felt in herself.

Maybe she wasn't thinking clearly...after her brush with death, she wasn't in the best frame of mind...but she didn't care. She slipped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled his lips to hers. She tilted her head to the side and kissed him deeply. He tensed in surprise, then cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her back, his tongue swirling hungrily around hers and the sweet taste of his breath filling her mouth. Her heart blasted a frenetic tempo and her loins stirred like wind raked embers, passion blowing through her midsection and setting fire to her center. She shoved her fingers into his hair and drew him closer; their teeth clinked, but she barely noticed. He took her face in both of his hands, his nails scratching her scalp; she shook like a virgin schoolgirl and sucked a sharp inhalation, his breath filling her lungs, steeping her brain, intoxicating her on desire.

The kiss broke, and they gazed into each other's eyes, both dazed and panting for air. Their lips glistened with their mingled saliva and Lynn's body pulsed with the burning ache to be joined with his, to wrap itself around him and stroke him slowly, then faster, then faster, then faster still, to be full with him. Fire raged in his eyes, and the way he looked at her, as though he were straining to control himself and barely winning, told her he wanted it too.

Someone spoke, and they both jumped. "You guys ready?"

Lachonne favored them with a bemused little smile that made Lynn blush. She and Lincoln looked away from each other, Lincoln pulling his hands out of her hair, and Lynn couldn't help a satisfied smirk. Her heart raced and for the first time in a _long _time, she was happy. "Yeah," she said and awkwardly scratched her head, avoiding eye contact with the black woman. "We're ready."

She got to her feet, and vertigo overcame her. Her knees buckled, and she started to fall, but Lachonne laid a steadying hand between her shoulder blades. "Easy, girl." There was a taunting inflection in her voice that made Lynn feel two inches tall. She was a grown woman and grown women kiss grown men, that was the natural order, even so, she was kind of embarrassed, like a girl who'd been caught in the act by her friends, and stood to be endlessly teased.

"I'm fine," she said.

Lincoln stood and darted his eyes coyly to the ground like a bashful boy. Lynn stole a glance at her friend and nodded. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine, we're fine, we're just...gonna get in the car." Was she rambling? She felt like she was rambling. People said she had a bad habit of doing that when she was nervous.

"Alright then," Lachonne said, the smile in her voice widening. She turned and crossed to the bus, grabbing a metal handhold to the side of the rear door and climbing in. Lynn and Lincoln faced one another, neither moving and neither able to look at the other. Lynn's cheeks flushed hotly and her stomach fluttered so hard abdominal muscles clinched.

Lincoln's hand lifted as if to rub the back of his neck, but he stopped it and took a deep breath. "I'll drive," he said.

"Yeah," she said and frowned at her wounded arm, "that'd probably be a good idea." Keeping his gaze downcast, he went to the passenger door and opened it like a chauffeur preparing the way for a VIP. Lynn walked over and raised her hand to her forehead, using the pretense of being itchy to hide her face. Sitting, she pulled her leg in, and Lincoln closed the door. She watched him cross around to the driver side and unconsciously licked her bottom lip, catching the flavor of his kiss and savoring it like a connoisseur. The corners of her mouth carved up and a girlish giggle bubbled up in her throat. Giddy. She was giddy. That realization made her smile because wow, talk about a plot twist. She couldn't remember the last time she'd experienced something like this; long ago, beyond the rim of the new world, when she was a teenager...or maybe even earlier. It was a light, airy sensation, like floating on air, and despite everything that had happened over the past hour, and despite the dull ache in her shoulder, she was smiling when he slid in behind the wheel and pulled the door closed behind him. She glanced at him, and something caught her eye. She twisted around, and her heart dropped; Lori and Luan were laid out on the back seat, stacked like cords of wood, limbs tangled. The blanket covered their heads, but their arms dangled, white, blood streaked hands pale against the darkness.

She was crazily reminded of pictures she'd seen of twins snuggling in the womb, and some of the warmth in her chest drained away. She faced frontward again and suppressed a shudder.

Full night had fallen, and stars twinkled overhead like jewels scattered across black satin. The bus's tail lights winked on, glowing satanic red, and the engine sputtered to life with a hacking wheeze. Lincoln started the car and disengaged the brake. The bus lurched forward and started down the road once more; Lincoln toed the gas, the engine issuing a low, guttural whine like a beast yearning to be set free, and spun the wheel to avoid one of the dirt bikes.

For a while, they rode in uneasy silence, neither knowing what to say and both uncertain of how to proceed. Lynn watched him from the corner of her eye, his profile a vague outline in the dark and illuminated only by the faint green glow from the dashboard. He kept his eyes forward and his hands at ten and two, his body stiff and unrelaxed. She remembered what he said earlier about staying mobile because if he didn't, he would start to care.

A state of mind he made clear he did not want.

Was their kiss just a momentary lapse of reason on his part, or was it something more? It's easy to get carried away in the proverbial moment and do things that you don't really mean...and very quickly regret. When passion, in every sense of the word, runs high, it tends to take over; a drunken disagreement turns unintentionally into an ax murder, a beatdown goes too far, you kiss the crying woman in your arms even though you don't have any feelings for her.

In other words, it's easy to make a mistake.

Did _he _make a mistake?

For that matter, did _she? _

She didn't know, and her mind was still slow and thick from the overdose of pain and adrenaline to properly function - thoughts came cumbersome and muddled if they came at all. She knew only that she liked him; he was handsome, quick-witted, brave, and reminded her of herself in many way. Starting from him in her periphery, she tried to imagine being with him...as in maybe living together or at least spending all their free time together, and her stomach clutched lightly. She could readily envision it...and it made her feel warm and tingly again. She couldn't speak for him...but she didn't regret their kiss. The only thing she could reproach herself for was _maybe _reading too much into it. He didn't want friends or people to love, and after the battle, if he was able, he was leaving.

To him...what they shared might mean nothing. _She _might mean nothing.

While she had no real right to expect differently, black, slimy dread sloshed in the pit of her stomach anyway.

Maybe she was overthinking it. If she was as smart and strong as she thought she was, she'd shove it away and focus on tomorrow. She wasn't, though; the urge to talk to him, to ask him how he felt and what was going through his mind, burned like coals in the center of her chest. If she did, however, she would look needy...or desperate...or stupid. She would open herself to being let down. She didn't want that. God help her, she was fragile right now.

Instead of speaking, she turned her eyes to the window and stared out into the night. The moon sat high and gibbous in the sky, its bright, ghostly light bathing the flat lands falling away from the road. She went to cross her arms, and pain flared in her shoulder; she sucked a brisk intake of breath and balled her good hand against her lap; the fingers of the other barely moved.

"How you feeling? Lincoln asked and spared her a quick, perfunctory glance.

Lynn considered her response for a long moment. Part of her wanted to hide her weakness from him like a shameful secret, but another part of him wanted to tell him her secrets, to let her steely facade slip...to be herself around him like she was with no one else, not even Lana. That desire, strong as iron and as inexplicable as the mysteries of life, unsettled and annoyed her. Just because they kissed, she cautioned herself, didn't mean that he felt for her, and she was loathe to emotionally throw herself at someone unless she knew he was willing to catch her. "Not bad," she allowed.

He flicked his eyes to her, and she reflexively swallowed. "Not good either, though."

It was a statement, not a question.

"No," she admitted. "It hurts."

His lips pursed a little, and it might have been wishful thinking, but Lynn got the impression that her pain caused _him _pain, no matter how slight. "It's gonna hurt for a while," he said. He looked like he had something more to say, then closed his mouth. Lynn watched him expectantly, and finally he continued. "I think you should stay at the mine," he said.

Lynn blinked in surprise. "Stay?"

"Yeah," he said and looked at her, "you're in no condition to fight. Look at your arm."

Her shoulder throbbed as if in agreement. "I'm not staying," she spat. "There's no way in hell I'm gonna stand by while -"

"I know," he said, silencing her. "I get it, okay? Your people, your home, you wanna protect it. I understand that, but you're hurt. Your right arm, which I assume is your dominant arm, right?"

She made no show of confirmation, even though it was.

"You can't use it. You can try, and I get the feeling you'll make the best effort anyone can, but that doesn't change biology. You're a human being who just had a bullet shot through their body. You're not going to be able to give 100 percent tomorrow no matter how hard you try. You'd be better off at the mine."

On some level, she knew he was right. Her shoulder was a throbbing mass of agony, her fingers were numb and cold, and when she tried to make a fist, a grimace flashed across her face like a ripple over the surface of a pond.

Regardless, she wouldn't stay at that mineshaft, away from the front..._couldn't _stay there. To her, this war wasn't about a town or gasoline or even the prospect of being subjugated by Sir. Girnmous's men. It was about her personal hopes and dreams for a better life, a happier life. Bartertown wasn't simply a place on a map, it was a place in her heart, and represented to her the cradle of the new world. There were other people and other societies, but Bartertown was, in her mind, Ground Zero, the point from which all civilization would one day spread. Hurt or not...100 percent or not...she'd fight for it to her dying breath, for Bartertown and its promises were worth laying down her life for. Better to die there than to live in the desert again, alone, afraid, starving, no hope, no future, living only in the moment, unable to imagine anything past tomorrow.

That's no life.

"That's not gonna happen," she said flatly.

Lincoln sighed disappointedly, and she felt the sudden need to make her case. "Bartertown means everything to me," she said, her passion, and her voice, rising as she spoke, like flood waters battering a cracking and beligured dam, "not just what it is but what it could be, what _we _could be. You're strong, you can live on your own in the desert with nothing and no one, but _I _can't, okay? I want what we had before. I don't want _this." _She lifted her good arm to indicate the world around them. Ahead, the bus braked and turned right onto a narrow dirt road winding into the hills. A faded wooden sign, its face scrubbed clean of writing by years of exposure to harsh elements, stood on the left, leaning heavily to one side like a weary traveller.

"I'm not as strong as you think," Lincoln said lowly, his voice brooding, "no one is. We're all just people dealing with our own shit and trying to get by. If I was strong, I'd have eaten a bullet the day my daughter died." Cold bitterness crept into his tone and Lynn's heart twinged at it. "I didn't. I cried, shook, then got up and kept going. I'm not strong for that, I'm weak. I'm…" he trailed off and shook his head. "I'm not made of stone and neither are you. I understand where you're coming from, alright? If you don't wanna listen, I can't make you." He looked at her, and the longing in his eyes sent her center fluttering again, stronger this time, as if under the batting wings of a million insistent butterflies. "I really wish you would, though." He blinked as if against welling emotion and turned back to the road. "I, uh...I broke my rule."

Lynn's brow furrowed. Rule? Did he mention a rule? She searched her mind but nothing stood out. "What rule?" she asked.

He spun the wheel to the left and followed the bus up a steep incline. To their right, a sheer rock face blocked the night sky, and to the left, the eternal nothing of night in the Mojave opened up into forever. In the soft light emanating from the control panel, his eyes were two bottomless pools of darkness and the pallor of his skin lent him a corpse like appearance. When he spoke, it was in a dry croak. "I let myself care. About you."

Lynn's heart dropped and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up...literally stood up, as though drawn forth by the close passage of static electricity. He coughed and stared out the windshield. The road was flatter now, following a ridgeline. The bus's headlights washed across a chain-line fence with a pad-locked gate. Gravel crunched under its tires as it came to a rolling stop. A woman got off, went to the lock, and inserted a key. Lynn opened her mouth, but words wouldn't form, and if they had, she wouldn't have been able to hear them over the thundering of her heart.

Did he...did he really care about her? If so...in what way? Hope soared in her chest, and she frantically tried to fight it back lest it be shot down and smashed to pieces.

She didn't realize she was speaking until she heard the shaky sound of her own voice. "I don't know how to respond to that," she said, then choked off an involuntary giggle, turning him instead into a cynical chuckle.

The woman slid the gate open and got back on the bus. "I don't know how to follow it up," Lincoln admitted. The bus drove through and Lincoln accelerated, the car jostling as the tires dipped into ruts in the ungraded road. Lynn's mind raced with a thousand thoughts she was afraid to entertain and a thousand more questions she was too scared and proud to ask, A tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed that she was being irrational and moving too quickly, but it was drowned out by the warm, downy feeling in her chest. She flashed by to him holding her in his arms, and that was it - she knew where she stood now, win or lose, stand or fall.

"I care about you too," she said meekly. The words sounded strange to her ears, but felt right on her lips. It was crazy, sudden, and stupid maybe to feel this way after a hug and a kiss on the side of the road, but looking at him now...she did care. She recalled the suffering in his voice when he told her about his daughter, and a knife blade of sympathy sliced through her center; insane or not, she wanted to wash it away and never, ever hear it again. "And that's even more reason I can't stay."

The bus pulled into a wide plain fronting a hillside, its lights revealing the mine's opening, wooden framing flush with red, timeworn stone. A rusted railroad started at the entrance and disappeared into the yawning maw like a tongue into a hungry mouth. A mine cart sat overturned in the dirt, its wheels missing and its steel plated sides rotted all the way through in places. "I figured," he said heavily and parked behind the bus. He looked at her and pursed his lips in thought. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could sense his mind working. She waited impatiently for what he would say next. With a sigh, he put the car in park and and killed the engine. "There's nothing I can say to persuade you? Nothing at all?"

Lynn resolutely shook her head. There was not.

"Alright," he said. "I won't waste my breath."

She didn't know what to say. "Good."

"Good," he retorted.

"Good," she said impishly.

He favored her with a sportive sidelong glance. She lifted her brows, challenging him to continue, and he fell for the bait like a dork. "Good."

"Good," she said, her voice rising and falling mockingly.

He started to reply, but she cut him off. "I can do this all night," she warned, "you might as well just get out and cut your losses."

"Oh, yeah?" he asked, the challenged becoming the challenger.

The bus's side door opened and people started streaming out, Lachonne in the lead, her AK across her chest, barrel pointed at the ground. While kidding with Lincoln was fun, Lynn really needed to get out. She doubted Ginormous knew about the mine - no one from Bartertown had been here since he moved into the area - but the possibility that some of his men were hanging around, waiting to strike, did exist.

Reluctantly, she turned away and opened the door. "Actually, you win," she said, and couldn't stop herself from adding, "only time it's gonna happen, though."

She jumped out and slammed the door behind her before he could reply. The night was chilly and silent; as if on cue, a coyote howled in the distance, its eerie call echoing through the Mojave like the kneading wail of a lost spirit. She walked over to Lachonne, her feet barely touching the ground, and when the black woman saw her, her brow furrowed. "You're smiling," she said with knowing hilt.

Was she? She forced her lips into a contrived frown, and Lachonne snickered. "Shut up," Lynn said with a flush.

"I didn't say anything."

The car door slammed, and Lynn twisted around to watch Lincoln come, her smile returning of its own accord. He stood next to her and started to slip his hands into his pockets, but crossed his arms instead. "This is it, huh?" he asked and craned his neck to get a better looking at the mine. A beam of moonlight lay across the ground in front of it like a threshold.

"Yeah," Lachonne said, "that's it. Goes about a quarter mile back before it hits a wide spot." An owl hooted close by, and she darted her wary eyes in its direction, her finger plucking the trigger guard. She scanned the void, and Lynn followed her line of sight, her eyes acutely tuned to pick out the slightest sound that didn't belong; the furtive scrape of a foot against rock, the crunch of gravel, the rustle of fabric as an enemy lifted his rifle and took aim….

She heard nothing. "I might be paranoid," Lachonne said, "but I don't like being out in the open."

While Lincoln and Lester unloaded boxes of provisions from the bus, Lynn and Lachonne lead the women and children into the shaft, both wielding flashlights. The walls were stone held back by aged wooden timbers that looked like they'd crack if you so much as breathed wrong. They walked down the center of the tracks in a neat, single file line, Lynn in the lead; her shoulder burned with pain and she did her best to ignore it. Lexington cried out, his tiny voice reverberating through the tunnel, and Lamis gently shushed him.

The shaft terminated at a wide, open chamber with more shafts opening up on all three sides. At some point after purchasing the mine from the state of California, J. Harriman Loud had the tracks removed from the terminus and the floor laid with concrete. Boxes were stacked along one wall and cobwebs danced in a draft of chilly air. Shadows flickered across the walls as Lynn waved the light back and forth, checking for hidden danger but finding none. Lachonne helped the others settle in, and Lynn waited impatiently for Lincoln, leaning left and right to see down the tunnel. When he and Lester appeared side by side, each holding a box, she smiled giddily.

"Need any help?" she asked unthinkingly as he walked up. A pang went through her shoulder as if her body were reminding her that duh, you just got shot, you can't help.

"We got it," he said and sat the box on the floor.

"I can carry something," she pressed, a hint of desperation in her voice. She didn't particularly care about carrying anything, she just wanted to make herself useful and show him that wounded or not, she wasn't crippled - she could still pull her own.

Lincoln fixed her with a firm look. "We got it, Lynn," he said in a tone that settled the matter, and her Lola Loud given name had never sounded sweeter.

She watched him and Lester go, and despite everything that had happened over the past hour and a half, she was over the moon.

And maybe, just maybe...head over heels.


	11. Suffer to Live

**THXXX11138: No, it's not a reference. I know that show and once you mentioned it, I remembered there being a character on it by that name (the rabbit, right?), but I chose "Harriman" at random because it sounded like a rich person's name. As for shoulder shots...nah, I'm just lazy. Having a character hit there gives them greater mobility than being hit somewhere else, like the leg.**

**STR2D3PO: The last chapter was much longer than my usual. I didn't realize how long it was until I went to post it. Wanted to break it into two but that required work that I wasn't willing to put it. I'm ill at the moment and just don't care, lol. I should have deleted everything after the shootout - like them going to the mine - because it isn't really necessary, but that didn't occur to me until later. **

**Anonymous789: No, that was not at all intentional, I'm just running out of ideas for chapter titles. Pretty soon I'll probably stop naming them altogether.**

As the sun sank behind the mountains in the west and a chilly wind rushed from the hills, Sir. Ginormous stared in the direction of Bartertown, a hard glint in his faded brown eyes. Next to him, Chandler, eyes hidden behind inky black Aviator lenses, steered the Jeep Wrangler one handed, his left elbow bent on the door. A pick-up truck flanked them on either side, both hanging back as if in deference to the vehicle bearing The Leader. A dozen men a piece were crammed into each one's bed, all gazing stonily ahead, some with rifles slung across their backs and all with pistols on their hips.

They were presently sailing across the salt flats east of US 92 toward the rugged foothills guarding the higher ranges, dust trailing behind them and the final rays of the dying sun retreating ahead. Ginormous was tense as he always was when he approached the place where Abe dwelt; one day, he was certain, the giant would not be there, and the prospect of losing his ace-in-the-hole both worried and infuriated him.

His fears were unfounded as only he could control its might, but he still indulged them from time to time, such as now. He drummed his fingers restlessly on his bare, rock hard thigh, and one large combat boot tapped an anxious tempo against the floorboard. He kept his eyes trained to the east, however, his teeth unconsciously chewing his bottom lip. In less than twenty-four hours, he would finally lead his people into the Promised Land...after brushing aside the resistance. Victory was assured, but he was nervous. Not about the prospect of them inflicting heavy casualties on his troops, but about his troops inflicting heavy casualties on _them. _He fully intended to make an example out of at least two or three of their number, but he did not want to kill too many. He expected their defenses to rapidly crumble and imagined they would come to heel quickly, but even a very short war could yield stiff fighting, which in turn could lead to many dead. He wasn't concerned with his side - they had so many men that they'd be better off losing a couple dozen - but he _was _concerned with losing women.

Death, however, is the natural byproduct of war, and while he was loathe to kill a high number of Bartertown's women, he couldn't very well order his men to take them all alive.

For that reason, the strike had to be quick and decisive. Once upon a time, George W. Bush instituted _shock and awe_, a military strategy that sought to inspire fear, wonder, and paralysis in the Muslim terrorists for which it was intended. Thirty years later, Sir. Ginormous strove to awaken similar feelings in the defenders of Bartertown. To achieve this end, he would employ Abe.

A snatchet of Revelation ran through his head as the cave where it reposed appeared in the distance. A beast with ten horns and seven heads rose up from the sea, and a second beast from the earth; the latter had the body of a lamb but a mouth like a lion. The first beast vested it with power which it used to force all the inhabitants of earth to worship the former. Ginormous was the first beast, and Abe was the second. Once the peoples of earth witnessed its awful majesty, like a mountain speaking fire, they would bend their knees in shock and awe.

Presently, they came to the cave, the craggy foothills jutting from the sandy earth like broken teeth. A massive boulder blocked its entrance like one once marked the tomb of Christ. Chandler killed the engine and got out, grabbed his Tec 9 AB10, and looped the strap around his neck. The trucks pulled up in a choking puff of dust, and the men jumped out of the back. Ginormous climbed from the Jeep, and the frame lifted with a metaphorical sigh of relief at the discharge of his epic bulk. "Alright," Chandler barked, "grab the gear and get to work. I want it outta the way before sunset."

The men, wiedling chains and 2x4s, converged on the stone, and Ginormous crossed his arms proudly over his chest. Chandler stood next to him, his index finger lovingly stroking the Tech-9's trigger. A man in a jean jacket jammed the end of a plank under the rock for leverage, and others threaded the chain around its width, one kneeling on its left flank and another prone on the right, reaching behind and threading the chain through a gap. They worked in grim silence, and when they were done, Chandler turned and wiggled his fingers. One of the trucks crept forward, then pulled a U-turn and backed slowly up, stopping when Chandler held his fist up. A man in cutoffs and a red bandanna hooked the chain to the truck's hitch. He stepped back, and the others took up position on the boulder's far side. Chandler waved the truck on, and the engine gunned, tires spinning impotently on the hardpan.

"Push!" Chandler called. Bending and slapping their hands against the rough rock, they grunted, strained, and moaned as the truck attempted to gain traction. Ginormous watched impassively, his fingers absently drumming on his bicep. Slowly, the stone began to move. The engine whined and and the wheels bit into the ground. The driver bent his arm on the door and craned his neck to get a better look, then pressed harder on the gas. Finally, the stone rolled away with a grating scrape, and the last strands of tepid sunlight fell across Abe's face. Ginormous let out a pent up breath, and all of the men turned their eyes to behold its wonder.

Ginormous uncrossed his arms and went to it, his boots slipping in the soft sand. In the shade of the cave mouth, he looked up at it, then laid one hand on its warm metal plating...so much like living flesh. He could feel its power thumming beneath his palm, and his heartbeat picked up as he communed with the beast, a weapon of war and a man of war reveling in their shared passion and purpose.

An hour later, Abe stood inside the circle of cars ringing the camp, its sole possessive finger pointed in the direction of Bartertown, its all seeing eye gazing across vast expanses of sand, scrub, and wilderness. Every man who passed openly marveled at it, and even as he sat in his tent, Ginormous sensed its demigod-like presence.

Sitting at his desk, a half-eaten meal pushed aside, he surveyed the map, Rusty's Polaroids fanned out at his left hand. He carefully added the defenses to the page, a heavily shaded line denoting the trench and quick slashes representing pikes - a looping squiggle stood in for barbed wire and dark circles acted as boulders. He'd gone over the plans again and again, making minor tweaks and adjustments here and there, and had come to the conclusion that they were as perfect as they could be. A full-scale invasion would, he decided, come as a last resort. First, he would flex and display his strength in an effort to intimidate them into submission. Failing that, his men would advance and tear down the walls - his orders would be shoot to wound where possible. His goal, at that point, would not necessarily be to kill the defenders, but to take them out of the fight. Realistically, that would most likely come in the form of killing them, though well placed shots to the arms, legs, and even the torso could disable them without proving fatal. There were three doctors among the ranks of _Watu, _one a trauma surgeon who headed the emergency room at the UCLA Medical Center in Los Angeles before the Collapse. Combined with Lola's doctor, Lisa, they could likely handle even the worst of reparable injuries. The risk of killing off too many women, however, unsettled him. The New Earth needed generic diversity, and for that he wanted as many females as he could lay his hands on.

A vision of Lola flashed across his mind, and aching longing clutched in the middle of his chest. He didn't care about the others, but she...she was his. And once he mated and married her, she would come around.

Yes she would.

The tent flap rustled, and Ginormous looked up to find Chandler and Rusty standing there, Bobby Terry Parker between them, one leg bent off the ground. Chandler held the back of his flannel shirt and Rusty's arm was wrapped around his waist. Ginormous's eyes went to the redneck's cocked appendage; blood dripped onto the ground and soaked in the dirt.

Bobby Terry was one of Rusty's scouts, and from the dour looks on Rusty and Chandler's faces, Ginormous knew something was wrong. Setting aside his pencil, he sat up straight, a beast crowning from the tempest tossed sea. "What?" he demanded.

A flicker of pain ran across Bobby Terry's haggard features, and Ginormous nodded to a chair fronting the desk. Chandler and Rusty brought him over, and he sat with a hiss of pain. Ginormous glared, and the man's eyes darted shamefully to his lamp. "M-Me a-and Ratty...we were watchin' the town a-and they started putting people on a bus, so Ratty said we should follow 'em, and I said no, cuz I didn't wanna get in trouble."

Underneath his mask, Ginormous's brows lowered dangerously. Loading people onto a bus? He shifted his weight, and Bobby Terry cringed like a skittish dog. His voice shook when he continued. "A-And we did and we tried to get the drop on 'em, but they fought back and Ratty...he got killed. A-And I got shot. See?" He pointed to mess of red on his upper thigh.

Annoyance nippled at Ginormous's heels. He leaned forward, and Bobby Terry leaned back, trepidation flooding his eyes. "Tell me _everything,_" Ginormous said.

Bobby Terry's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and so, too, did his head. "O-Okay, yeah, uh...well..we were up on the ridge where Rusty left us…"

As he spoke, Ginormous settled back in his chair and listened, his fingers tapping the desk, slowly at first but faster as his irritation rose. It nettled him that Bartertown would clandestinely send its children off to hide (he did not want them, but the point stood); it irked him that Ratty and Bobby Terry flagrantly disobeyed direct orders from their commanding officer; and it downright infuriated him that the fools had the high ground _and _the element of surprise on their side...but lost anyway.

When he was done, Bobby Terry regarded his lap with a castigated expression. He claimed that Ratty wanted a promotion, but that he, Bobby Terry, was _real happy with what I have and didn't think of anythin' like that at all. _Ginormous smelled the lie on him, and that enraged him all the more. All he did for these people, all he gave them and _sacrificed _for them, and they weren't satisfied. They _all _felt this way, he just knew it. Nothing he could ever do for them would be enough, they would always be unhappy. They would always reject Him and His Truth.

Just like Lola.

Hot, pulsing _wrath _swept through his chest, and his hand, laying on the table, closed into a tight, shaking fist. He fought to contain himself, but for the second time that day, his emotions got the better of him. His arm shot out and he grabbed Bobby Terry by the front of his shirt and half dragged him over the table. The redneck's eyes widened in terror and he issued a high, shocked yelp. "You dare bemoan your treatment here?" Ginormous hissed through his teeth. "My world isn't good enough for you?"

"No! I mean yes! It is! I love it here!"

He was lying. People always lied. Deep in the rotten core of their malignant hearts, they were all blind, self-serving hedonists who indulge their animal urges freely and without shame. They care not for the people around them, nor for the world they morally pollute - they lived only to gratify and satiate their own primal instincts. Human beings are each born weak and wicked; the strong work to overcome the stain of their Original Sin while the weak - the cucks, the liberals, the faggots - sink like stones into the abyss without so much as a fight. They allow their addictions and their genitals to govern them and then have the audacity to call it freedom. They degrade the quality of society for the rest of us like sinkholes drawing everything around them into the void. They have no pride, no self-control, no self-respect, no principles, no values, and no morals. They live for fleeting moments of pleasure, like puffs of smoke, that never truly sustain them. They fuck one another, use one another, and dispose of one another, then walk away with the same bottomless pit of emptiness in their souls, the one that they try desperately to fill, even if they don't know it, and never quite can.

Men need a purpose, a sense of community, and a goal to keep ever before them, they need to be kept in line and told where to go and what to do. If you allow him to make his own way, he will veer from the straight and narrow, then he will tempt others away like the serpent he is. Give him structure, give him work, and give him the illusion of mattering, give him a reason to continue suppressing his feral reflexes, otherwise he will disappear up his own anus and have to be shot like a horse with a broken leg.

There was no place in the New World for liars, users, or anti-social miscreants whose only concern was for themselves. There was also no room for the emotionally stunted, the people whose past suffering lead to present improprieties. A man or woman with profound hang ups - abandonment issues, inferiority complexes, gross and terminal insecurities - is a weak link in the chain, and you couldn't trust them with charge of themselves anymore than you could an alcoholic. They claw frantically at the shirts of the strong for help - to feel momentarily loved or wanted, to beat back the hounds and demons constantly encircling them - and drag them down with. A woman who has been hurt or abandoned, raped or abused as a child, lurks about like a succubus in the night, luring good men away from the path or enticing weak men to put their seed into them. The only time these broken women can feel loved or valued is when they are being rutted into by broken men - they are so frail and insecure that they cannot believe or have faith, they must _see. _To them, a hard dick is love, and when the man is spent, the warm feelings he stoked within her instantly begin to drain away like coffee from a cracked mug. They have no loyalty and no fidelity to anything but trying to piece their shattered hearts back together through meaningless one night stands that too often result in bastard offspring they are unable to love.

To love others...to love a child...you must first love yourself.

These creatures prove again and again through their actions that they do not love themselves, and are as unfit for parenthood as they are for life. Broken men and broken women can only make broken homes...and broken children. Those broken children grow into more broken men and women who one day preside over a broken society like the one that passed mercifully away six years ago.

No more! He would not allow the lingering vestiges of the old world to infect the new.

He would not suffer men like Bobby Terry to live.

"You lie," Ginormous spat. He shoved the man roughly back; the chair tipped back, and crying out, Bobby Terry fell, his arms flapping impotantly like clipped wings. Ginormous jumped to his feet and walked around the edge of the table. Bobby Terry lay on his stomach, writhing like an overgrown bug. Chandler stared down at him with contempt writ across his face, and Rusty looked uneasily on - he wasn't as accustomed to the leader's fury as Chandler; despite thinking himself tough, it scared the shit out of him on the rare occasions he beheld it.

Bending, Ginormous grabbed the back of Bobby Terry's shirt and yanked him off the ground. "No!" the redneck wailed and thrashed in the leader's grip, which only made him angrier. Balling his fist, he smashed it as hard as he could into the back of Bobby Terry's head, relishing the hot pain streaking up his arm. He did it again, and Bobby Terry screamed like a dying cat. Ginormous's vision doubled with rage, and he saw not a single man before him, but the epitome of everything wrong with the world, everything that threatened the new society. He'd been working so hard for so long to make a better world, and he was so close he could almost taste it. Bobby Terry would _not _screw it up.

Swinging one massive leg over the fallen man and planting it in the soft dirt, Ginormous squatted down and grabbed Bobby Terry's head in a tight, choking sleeper hold: One forearm across his crazily pounding throat and the other across his sweat slicked forehead. A strangled gurgle escaped Bobby Terry's lungs, and he tossed his head from side to side in a futile attempt to break the hold. Ginormous tightened his grip, the veins and muscles in his arms straining. "You are ungrateful," Ginormous said through his teeth, "insolent. Piece of shit."

Bobby Terry's eyes bugged from their sockets and blue color crept into his face. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for water; spittle flew from his working lips and blood trickled from his nose. His body trembled lightly, a sign of weakness that increased Ginormous's hatred of him. Rusty shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and through the fog of his ire, Ginormous remembered the bus. "Can you find them?" he asked. "The ones they evacuated?"

Rusty looked down at his feet as if to blot out the sight of Bobby Terry's purple face and scratched his head. "Uh...possibly."

"Go," Ginormous said. Bobby Terry was limp now, and still. "If you find them, report back."

Nodding, he turned tail and fled.

Ginormous released Bobby Terry; his face flopped into the dirt and his back rose and fell quickly as his unconscious body sucked air into his oxygen starved lungs. Standing, Ginormous glowered down at him, seething still and hating himself for it. Chandler stayed where he was, looking at Bobby Terry with a sneer. Chandler, unlike the others, understood the Truth and was smart enough to know an enemy of society when he saw one. "Should I have a cross made?" he asked.

"Yes," Ginormous said. He put his hands on his hips and turned away, his eyes boring through the holes in his mask like embers and his heart slamming painfully against his breast. He realized he was shaking, and swallowed hard. He was so close to his goal of taking Bartertown and having Lola for his wife that the terrors of having it ripped away from him were setting in. That must be it. Otherwise he wouldn't be so temperamental. "Take him into the desert, shoot him, and leave him for the vultures."

Chandler bent over, snatched Bobby Terry's arms, and dragged him through the flap, leaving a wide path of disturbed dirt in his wake. Ginormous rounded the table and dropped into his chair, which creaked under his weight. He sat his fist on the table and stared off into space, his anger beginning to subside. He didn't like that he kept losing his composure; a man of his genius and stature should keep always a firm grip on his emotions. He, unlike others, was allowed his moments of pique, but he was stronger and therefore demanded more of himself. His eyes went to the map and his stomach rippled sickly. Tomorrow, he told himself, it would all be over tomorrow. He would have Bartertown, its resources, and, most importantly, Lola. Sweet, beautiful, queenly Lola, the mother of his future children whether she wanted to be or not. He drew a deep, wistful breath and let it out slowly. They would have more children than can be numbered, more than her mansion could possibly hold, an army of little boys and girls who would be as comely as their mother and as brilliant as their father. He hoped for a daughter first; when she was of age, he would give her to Chandler as a token of his love and acceptance. Once they bore children, his and Chandler's bond would be set in flesh, as, Ginormous had come to believe, it should have been from the beginning.

Tomorrow. So close but so far at the same time.

Restless energy surged through him and he sighed. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

On a normal night, the walls of Bartertown were lit by floodlights, but when Lincoln and Lynn returned from the mine, it was completely dark. Driving up the dirt road to the front gate, Lincoln felt an inexplicable twist of dread, certain that somehow, in his and Lynn's absence, it had been blotted from the face of the earth, and in its place, they would find only empty desert. Then a spotlight winked on and filled the world with blinding white brilliance, and Lincoln squinted his eyes. In the passenger seat, Lynn, who had been asleep since leaving the mine, sat suddenly upright with the gasp of a woman thrown into cold water. She jerked a disoriented look around, fear in her face, and for some reason, Lincoln's middle clenched painfully.

"It's alright," he said soothingly, "we're home."

She blinked and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm. They rolled to a stop and two guards with under barrel flashlights affixed to their rifles came over, one on either side of the car, and shone their beams through the windows. Lynn held up her hand to shield the glare, and one of them called out to someone on the catwalk to, "Open it up!"

A guard inside the compound pulled the gate to one side, and Lincoln drove in, turning left and guiding the Mustang into an empty spot beside a Dodge Charger. Lynn tangled her slender fingers through her chestnut hair and winced. Her face was pallid and drawn, and several times on the ride over, she thrashed and whimpered in her sleep. At one point she spoke in a soft, nightmare mutter; he couldn't make out words, but the desolate tone of her voice stung like a blow to the guts. As he drove through the night, slow and without headlights in case of watchers in the hills, he went over the past several hours again and again, especially the kiss he and Lynn shared on the side of the road.

His heartbeat sped up every time he thought of it...his mind lingering fondly on the memory of her lips skimming his, the taste of her breath in his mouth, and the feeling of her soft, warm hair slipping between his fingers like summer silk. He stole sidelong glances at her profile, half revealed in the stark dashboard glow, and deep in his breast, behind the thick walls he'd carefully crafted over years, his heart swelled.

When he told her he cared about her, he was telling the truth. He did. He wasn't sure to what extent he cared before the kiss, but her tears, the fearful trembles that wracked her body, and the soft affection of her hand stroking his cheek stoked whatever feelings he had like iron raking flame. He sensed in her the same pain and weakness he himself carried. It sprang from a different source, perhaps, but manifested in similar ways. She projected strength and stability, but deep inside, she was hurt...just like him, and maybe it was his inborn masculine need to protect something, but he found, as he guided the Mustang through the night, that he wanted to hold her and make the pain go away, wanted it with a stomach gnawing intensity that terrified him. Everything he had ever loved died, and years ago, he vowed to never love anything again. He wanted to, but he pushed those feelings into the recesses of his heart and built a buttress around it to keep anything from getting in..,or out.

It was inevitable that something would, and he lived in silent dread of that day, knowing with an incessant niggle in the back of his mind that it would come in one form or another. He couldn't outrun the specter forever, it'd catch up with him eventually. He'd meet a woman and fall in love with her, or he'd stumble across a lonely child and take it as his own...hell, he might even stop to take a leak and wind up stalked by a friendly and playful dog. _Alright, _he'd say, _you can come with me, but don't shit on my seats. _He'd jab a stern finger at it and make a show of being burdened, like a hard-bitten action hero for a Hollywood audience, but in his heart, hope would flicker like a spark and he would come to love the little bastard long before the viewers at home ever caught on.

Humans are social creatures...we live in packs and evolved with interpersonal problem solving skills for a reason: To make co-existing with each other easier...because we can't do it alone. We couldn't five thousand years ago, and we can't do it now. The feminists used to say _a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle, _but they were wrong; women need men and men need women...we need each other like a body needs all its organs to properly function. There are lone wolves, but he was not one of them. In school, he was friends with everyone; on the police force, he relished helping and interacting with people. Then the Collapse happened. Missiles and jet fighters streaked across the September sky, cities exploded, radiation crept into the water, and cold, ashy snow fell on the first day of October. One by one, the people in his life fell by the way until it was just him and his little girl. The day she died and he learned that he was man enough to put a gun to his head but not to pull the trigger, he promised himself he would become one of those strange and stoic creatures, that if he was to live, he would do it alone.

That oath, while heartfelt at the time, was destined to be broken like a zebra pledging to change his stripes. He was aware of this and he lived in fear of it coming to pass. Lynn was not the first person he felt something for, there were others scattered across the wastelands - a Hispanic woman named Ronalda in Texas he came dangerously close to loving, a boy in Arizona without a father who once told him _I wish you could be my new dad, _an old Mexican who reminded him so much of his own father he started to look up to him, and little girl in New Mexico who looked achingly like his daughter and whom he briefly (but earnestly) considered kidnapping. Each time, he felt the earth begin to crumble beneath his feet, and before it gave way, he ran.

The closest he came to tumbling into the fickle chasm of feelings was with Ronalda. Tall and pretty with dark hair, brown eyes, and warm skin the shade of desert sand, she was a prostitute in a shanty town along the Rio - she was seventeen but told her customers she was twenty as if that mattered anymore. He met her in a saloon where men drank themselves incontinent and the air reeked of piss and vomit. He was lonely and she was cheap. He expected her to lie there like a corpse and simply take it like others of her ilk, but they wound up talking and when they finally joined, the sighs, kisses, and tender caresses were genuine. He held her through the night, her fragrant hair in his face and her smell gently rocking him to sleep; in the morning, he left her physically, but not mentally. For three days she plagued his every waking thought, her voice, her scent, her sly smile as her face hovered inches above his, her hair enshrouding them in their own secret garden of delight and her eyes sparkling with love. The memory of her fingers twined with his and of her sleek body trembling as her passion crested followed him like an infatuated stalker, and his stomach rolled ceaselessly in a way it hadn't since he was a boy. He fought tooth and nail against the frightening feelings taking hold like cancer in his soul...but on the third day, he fell and went to her, then they made love.

He never liked that term...it was corny and sugary sweet...but that's exactly what it was, and staring down into her eyes, he came so close to saying _I love you _that his lips quivered.

That night, after she drifted off to sleep in his arms, he slipped out of bed and left, flying first southwest into Mexico, then north again at El Paso, racing against the spreading rays of the sun and the sick reeling in the pit of his stomach. He almost broke several times...almost went back to fling himself into the Great Uncertain...but he held fast and stayed strong. Or so he told himself. Sometime later, wrapped in a sleeping bag and looking into the star splashed sky over the Sonoran Desert, revelation came on him like a bomb blast; running away was not a sign of strength, but one of innate weakness. If he was strong, he would have stayed with Ronalda and clawed a life for them...and their eventual children...from the sandstone; instead, he tucked his tail between his legs and fled.

He hated himself for it, and right now, awash in similar feelings for Lynn, he hated himself even more for wanting to do it again. She stared straight ahead at the windshield with a dazed, groggy expression, her eyelids blinking rapidly to dispel the sleep therein. Her skin was wan, her lips seeming thinner than before, her features more jagged, as though she'd lost weight on the short journey back. The word _harrowed _came to mind...he didn't know if it aptly described her appearance or not, but it fit - she looked harrowed, like a woman who'd just been put through the wringer and hung out to dry. Lincoln's throat constricted with emotion and he looked down at his lap. Were the things he felt for her genuine? For that matter, were the things he felt for Ronalda genuine? A weak and lonely man isn't often the best judge of things like that. He craves affection and physical intimacy and often mistakes his need as want and his lust as love. He had only known Lynn a short time, and for most of that he didn't like her. He respected her, he thought she was attractive, he liked her fiery constitution (even when it was directed at him), the sound of her voice was melodic, and kissing her felt both right and good...but were those the thoughts of a love starved man grasping at straws, or was there something more?

And if there _was_...should he run?

His stomach lurched and an iron grip of panic closed around his chest, restricting his airways. If he stayed, he would sink deeper into his feelings, and one day, he might lose everything all over again. The coming battle loomed over him like the shadow of death, and terrible knowledge filled his mind.

It was too late.

Like it or not, genuine or manufactured by his own loneliness and need for human contact, he really _did _care about Lynn.

His middle clutched as though he were going to puke and he took a deep, cumbersome breath that did little to relieve the pressure weighing down his chest. He bit off a humorless chuckle and shook his head sadly. His worst fear had always been to care for someone and then lose them the way he lost everyone else...and he had to go and care about a woman twelve hours before the start of a fucking war.

Lynn let out a shaky breath as if in commiseration and he shot her a quick, hesitant glance. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like I did the last time you asked," she replied, her voice a dry, cracking whisper. _I hurt and I'm tired, _she told him before they left the mine.

Sighing, he killed the engine and threw the door open. "Alright, can you walk?"

She considered for a moment before replying. "Yeah."

Getting out, Lincoln slammed the door, crossed around the front end, and came up as Lynn opened her door and swung her legs out. She paused either to catch her breath or fight against a dizzy spell, and Lincoln stood over her with a worried frown. "You sure you can do this?" he asked.

Head hanged, she nodded. "Yeah. I just got dizzy for a second." She got to her feet and stumbled; Lincoln's heart rocketed into his throat and he shot out his arm, grabbing her by the shoulder and steadying her. "See?" she asked and flashed a tired smile that was beautiful despite its pallor...or maybe because of it. He felt a smile of his own forming in the corners of his mouth, and swallowed it down.

"I see," he confirmed, "can you actually _walk, _though?"

Her smile remained, plastered and wide. "I honestly _don't _know," she admitted. Her eyes flicked to his hand, and his realized it still rested on the slope of her shoulder. He reluctantly took it off, and Lynn swayed slightly back and forth like the masthead of a boat in rough swells. He was ready to reach back out and catch her again if she started to fall, but she kept her balance and took a shuffling step. She looked at him and nodded curtly, her ponytail swishing. "Yes. I can walk."

A guard came over, forestalling Lincoln's reply, and started to speak, but stopped when she caught a glimpse of Lynn's haggard face. "What happened?" she asked.

Lynn opened her mouth, but Lincoln cut her off and explained, as succinctly as he could, what happened on the road. When he got to the part about Lori, the guard flattened her lips and turned her head away. At the mention of Luan, she let out a soft, bitter, "Shit."

"You might wanna put extra people on the wall," Lincoln said. "Do they have night vision goggles?"

The guard nodded. "Yeah, some do."

Some wasn't enough for Lincoln's liking, but it was better than none. After the guard left to bring the news to Lola, he and Lynn made their way down the main drag toward the infirmary. The huts and shacks lining the way were all warmly lit and exuded the sounds and smells of life: Laughter, low chatter, cooking odors, and twangy music from a battery powered radio, country or something close. A few people passed in the street like darting shadows, and Lincoln tensed at the advent of each one, drawing unconsciously (and protectively) nearer to Lynn; maybe he was still keyed up from the shootout, but anyone could pose a threat. How many groups, armies, and governments had been sunk from within by turncoats embittered or disenfranchised by past slights or ideological differences? He couldn't name any off the top of his head, but he knew the number was many, and if it wasn't...talk about miracles.

Lynn's pace was slow and unsure, and he slowed his to match it. Her face was stoic, but her dark eyes simmered with a pain that cut Lincoln like a knife. "Looks like you got it in the same place I did,' he said to break the uncomfortable silence. "Better there than the leg."

"You been shot in the leg?" she asked, her voice thick with the effort it took to hide her suffering.

"Both legs," he said.

"Ouch," she said and winced - he couldn't tell if she was referring to him or herself. "Anywhere else?"

The infirmary loomed out of the night ahead and to the left, its windows blazing with light. The last he knew, Lisa and her team was continuing their production of war munitions in the form of car bombs. "Nope," Lincoln said. "I've been grazed a few times. One almost took my ear off." He laughed at the memory. "Came so close I swear I felt lead."

Lynn broke, walked to a green plastic lawn chair flanking a doorway, and sat, a spill of light from a window falling across her shoulders. She leaned heavily forward and drew a deep, chest expanding breath. Lincoln's stomach knotted and he went over. "I'm fine," she said quickly, "I just need a rest." She uttered a harsh laugh. "Being shot takes a lot out of you." He started to talk, but she went on. "Really makes you think, too." She chuckled nervously.

He didn't have to ask what she meant. Every brush with death leaves you shaken and contemplating your own mortality. Life is a fleeting thing and so easily extinguished - it's easy for us to forget that when the sailing is smooth, but when a storm blows it and the sky turns black, it all comes rushing back. Violently. "It does," he said.

"It could have been me," she said, her voice taking on a hollow, shell-shocked tone. "Just like that…" a shiver went through her and she wiped her eyes with the heel of her palm. Lincoln's heart went out to her, and his arms ached to be around her. "Yeah," he allowed, "but it wasn't. You're still here."

"Lori isn't," she pointed out. "And Luan. They're both gone. Like they never lived in the first place." For reasons known only to her, that tipped the scales and she started to cry again, her chest hitching and her lips pressed tightly together. She bowed her head so he wouldn't see, and that token display of shame hurt him. He had no right to expect her to show him her grief, even after what happened on the highway, but he wanted her to regardless. And maybe, much later on, he wanted to show her his as well.

He knelt down and laid his hand on her knee. She sniffled and swallowed thickly, and Lincoln rubbed his thumb over the fabric of her pants in a comforting circle, communicating that he was there for her. "I've seen people die before," she said, shaken, "but this time...I don't know. I guess I'm going soft." She let out a strangled sob that he thought was meant to be a chuckle.

"No," Lincoln said, "you're human. I told you that already."

She was quiet for a long, thoughtful moment, and from the profound cast of her face, Lincoln could only imagine that she was contemplating the cosmos and all the mysteries therein. She glanced up at him, her brow pinched and her eyes sober, and looked like she had something important to say. "I know." _I learned that earlier today, _she might have added, but didn't. She lowered her gaze to her lap and took a deep breath. "Let's go," she breathed.

Ten minutes later, Lynn, stripped once again to her bra and sat on a wooden exam table covered with thin blue padding, her legs dangling over the side and her head hanged in misery. Lisa carefully removed the bandage with gloved fingers. Lincoln leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed against the cold white glare of the overhead light. The physical and mental exhaustion of the day was finally catching up with him, and keeping his eyelids open took Herculean effort. Lisa peeled off a strip of adhesive binding the bandage to Lynn's skin, and Lynn hissed through her teeth.

"Don't move," Lisa admonished. She dropped the red soaked dressing onto a metal tray at her left hand and picked up a blood pressure cuff. Slipping it over Lynn's wounded arm, she squeezed the bulb until the cuff was swollen and tight. She inserted the ear tips of her stethoscope with her free hand, and pressed the chest piece to Lynn's arm. Lincoln wasn't too familiar with the finer points of advance care of gunshot wounds, but he did now that doctors determine the potential for vascular injury by comparing the blood pressure in the wounded extremity to the blood pressure in a non wounded extremity. He craned his neck to get a better look, and his stomach turned at the sight of the bullet hole in Lynn's flesh, the surrounding skin pink and raised. Blood trickled from it like water from a rock, and he let out a relieved breath. Whatever damage she sustained, it probably was not immediately serious.

Lisa switched to the other arm, squeezed the bulb again, and cocked her head, crazily reminding Lincoln of RCA's dog mascot trying to figure out why voices were coming out of that funny looking cone. She removed the cuff with a rip of velcro, returned it to the tray, and held the stethoscope to Lynn's chest. "Deep breath," she ordered.

Lynn inhaled.

"Hold," Lisa said.

She listened. "Breathe out."

Lynn exhaled.

She moved the chest-piece. "Breathe in." Lynn did. "Breathe out." Done, she went around the edge of the table and pressed it to Lynn's back, giving her the same commands. When Lynn breathed in, her breasts pushed out, and Lincoln's eyes were pulled to them like steel to a magnet. Shame crept across the back of his neck and he forced them away - here she was hurt, unsettled, and struggling to keep her composure, and he was ogling her like a dog.

Lisa came back around the table and pulled the stethoscope from her ears. "You're stable," she said, "blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, but that's normal under the circumstances. Now comes the fun part."

The _fun part _turned out to be direct examination of the wound, namely prodding it with a sterile instrument in search of bullet fragments and to assess the damage to the affected area. Lynn gritted her teeth, clenched her jaw, and sucked rapid breaths through her nose as Lisa picked pieces of bullet out of the wound with a pair of tweezers. She strained so hard that veins stood out on the side of her neck and cold sweat sheened her wan features. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," she chanted through her teeth.

"You should count yourself lucky," Lisa said and dropped a tiny shard of lead onto the tray with a metallic _clink, _"a projectile of that caliber could very well have caused extensive damage."

"It feels like it did," Lynn hissed.

"It didn't," Lisa said confidently, "at this point, I can't say whether or not there will be any lasting effects, but it _seems_ unlikely."

Hurried footsteps sounded behind Lincoln, and he tensed; before he could react, someone brushed rudely past him. "Are you alright?" Lana asked worriedly as she rushed to Lynn's side.

"I'm fine," Lynn said.

Lana looked between her friend's face and shoulder, her eyes wide with concern and her jaw slack. "W-What happened? Lera said someone attacked the bus? Is everyone okay?"

As Lisa dressed the wound, Lynn told Lana everything as it happened. Through the story, Lana's face gradually hardened and her eyes glinted with cold, reptilian rage. "Bastards," she said when Lynn was done. Panting, she whipped her head from side as if looking for something to take her fury out on. Instead, she took a deep breath and let it out in an angry rush. "Fucking bastards."

"Well, we got them," Lynn said tiredly.

"Good," Lana said. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head, her lips a bloodless scar on flushed red skin. "We'll get the rest tomorrow," she vowed.

"For now," Lisa said and stepped away from Lynn, "you need rest. And plenty of fluids. I'll grab some painkillers and a tube of ointment." She turned and left the room, her boot heels clicking on the floor and her lab coat fluttering around her knees.

Lana sat next to Lynn, and Lynn patted her knee. "Is Lola up?" she asked.

Before they left, Lana was assigned palace duty overnight, and, Lincoln figured, walked off to come here.

"Bitch is in her room," Lana said sourly, "I dunno."

The last time Lincoln saw the Queen of Bartertown was that morning during the meeting in the sitting room. She looked much like Lynn did now - tired, shaken, and afraid, her face drawn and her eyes haunted. She retreated to her chambers as soon as it was over and did not appear again.

Lynn shifted off the table and onto her feet, her movements slow and stiff. "We need to see her. Tell her exactly what happened and go over the plans."

"You heard Lisa," Lana said, "you need to rest."

Lynn waved her good hand. "I'll rest when this bullshit's over. Not a moment sooner."

The steely resolve in her voice made Lincoln proud. She was a fighter, plodding on even in a physically compromised state. Earlier, she said she wasn't strong, but she was wrong, she _was_, far stronger than he was. He'd spent the past six years running - from the memory of his daughter's death, from the prospect of caring again - but in the face of incalculable adversity, she was planting her feet firmly into the dust and standing up for what and who she loved. Respect swelled within him and a faint smile traced his lips.

Bartertown, to her, was worth fighting for.

And to him...she was worth fighting for.

Maybe, just maybe...she was also worth staying for when the dust settled.


	12. House of Cards

The woman sat alone in her room, the hush of night in the desert heavy upon her. Moonlight streamed in through the sliding glass door leading onto the balcony and made grotesque shapes on the thickly carpeted floor. The soft glow of a table lamp filled the tiny space, holding the shadows at bay but only just; they encircled her like hungry demons, waiting for the fire to die so they could rush in and claim her with sharp claws and jagged teeth.

She was sitting on the sofa, arms and legs crossed, as she had been all day, the hem of her silken robe lying across the top of her creamy thigh. Every so often, her foot would jitter with nervous energy and her eyes would scan the room for a danger she could feel but never see. At one point, she got up and went onto the balcony, the cold night wind flowing through her hair; usually it was brushed and fashionably styled, but now it was knotted, the crown of a Queen who did not care...and long hadn't.

Laying her hands on the railing, cold wrought iron, she gazed first at the stars, then into the west, where, beyond untold miles of desert, Sir. Ginormous and his men waited for sunrise. A ball of dread formed in her middle and the acrid taste of bile coated the back of her throat. She turned away and went back inside, her bare feet shuffling and her frame slightly trembling with cold. The room stood as it always had, the canopy bed to her left, the TV she rarely watched on her right, its screen bearing a watery and distorted version of her that she couldn't bring herself to look at. Though there were no outward differences, the room felt different, somehow changed. A ripple of unease shot through her burning, nauseous stomach and she pressed her hand to it with a wince.

Crossing to the nightstand, delicate features contorted in agony, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled open the drawer, taking out an unmarked pill bottle, orange with a white top. She unscrewed the lid and shook two tablets into her shaking hand, then tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them dry, her face puckering in distaste. She twisted the lid back on, replaced the bottle, and shoved it into an out of the way corner like a dirty little secret.

And it was. Unbeknownst to everyone but Lisa and probably Lester, Lola's stomach had been riddled with ulcers for over a year; as soon as one healed, the needling stress of ruling Bartertown begot another, then another, like an Old Testament sire heeding the Lord's call to be fruitful and multiply. She made it look easy because her pride was at stake, but it wasn't, and though no one knew it, she worried over everything. She was twenty-one and her blonde hair was already beginning to gray in places, and each time she looked in the mirror, she found another line at the corner of her mouth and eyes. She rarely slept more than three or four hours a night and what she ate eventually came back up. Her hands quivered incessantly and what little sleep she did get was fitful and stalked by nightmares of failure. In the light of day, she smiled and made her royal decrees, but inside she was a seething mass of anxiety and regret, like the soft, pulpy flesh of an infected tooth.

She thought she could do this, believed that she could do what her father did, but she couldn't; he was able to hold the world together with his bare hands, but of course he was, he was daddy, the strongest, smartest, and all around best man to ever live. She was Lola, and while she had many talents and winning qualities, staying the course just wasn't one of them. She thought being in charge would entail sitting there and looking good while everyone else did all the work, but she quickly realized that that wasn't the case. She accepted that, but once she came to understand just how much went into keeping Bartertown afloat, she began to doubt. The weight of everything rested on her shoulders, and one wrong move would send everything her father worked for, everything she herself wanted, collapsing like a house of cards.

And it would be all her fault.

She wished she knew what being the leader was really like before she took the mantle of power; if she did, she would have let someone else have it.

But she didn't, she picked it up for herself and that was that. She did a damn good job, but the toll it took on her body and mind…

Then...oh and then...he came along and everything got harder. She no longer had to worry about her kingdom falling apart, she had to worry about it being taken from her and watching everything she suffered to accomplish being raped, literally and figuratively.

Volcanic rage erupted in her and she flashed, slamming her fist against her knee. It wasn't fair. She wasn't a bad person, why was this happening to her? She had quirks like anyone, but she did everything in her power to give her people a good life - they had food, gasoline, a doctor, everything they could possibly want. Except for men.

What she told Lincoln was true, she did desire a bustling kingdom and the welling pride that goes along with not only ruling it, but having created it as well. For that, she needed men. Men who weren't rapists and murderers.

There was another aspect to her need, however, a more personal one.

She needed a man, someone handsome, strong and steady, someone she could lean on and share her troubles with, someone she could open her heart, mind, and body to in a way she could open them to nobody else. She felt a certain spiritual longing at the concept of baring herself completely to a man, in standing naked, vulnerable, and unguarded before him...no makeup, no pretenses, no false fronts...just her, weaknesses and all. She never knew she wanted that until she was alone at the top, isolated from everyone and pretending day after day that she was okay when she wasn't. Everyone needs love, intimacy, and understanding, even her, and there is no greater pain than not having it. She was a flower without the warming light of the sun; a fish slowly suffocating out of water; a lost, lonely little girl with no one to hold her hand, look into her eyes, and give her the affection for which she was so desperately starved. Every boy she had ever known wanted her only for her looks. They told her she was beautiful and charmed her into bed, but there was never any substance to their feelings...they wanted that proverbial one thing, and once they swindled her out of it, they suddenly didn't care about her thoughts and feelings the way they did before. She was nothing but her face and her body, pretty but ultimately unimportant. Her looks mattered, everything else did not...she, the Lola within, the real Lola, did not.

At first, she accepted this...she opened her legs for any man who put in a little effort because at least during the act, she could make believe they loved her, and if she closed her eyes and strained, she could feel the faint stirrings of that warm, magical sensation of being loved. As she grew older, she came to resent not only men but herself, because no matter how much she tried, she was still desperate for love. Why, she didn't know - her father was a good and loving man, and to imply she had daddy issues...that he caused this...was an insult not only to him, but to her as well. She was simply born this way.

Oh, but she hated it, and right before the Collapse, she resolved to never let another man have her ever again. They were all the same, anyway, manipulative users who only cared about getting their dicks wet and their egos stroked. Only deep in her heart, she didn't really believe that. Not all men were that way, just the ones she associated with. Everyone has a type, was hers trash? Surely the onus was on her...she made an easy target of herself and all but let them take her, like a gazelle placidly presenting its throat to a lion. A real man, a good man, did not prowl the way her men did, they...she didn't know. Hung out in churches? Worked all the time? Already had families? Were gay?

Or did she simply ignore them? She couldn't say, but she knew that somehow, she was to blame. Other women might lack the self-awareness to realize that they were but dogs returning to their own vomit, but not her. Every man she dated, whether black or white, rich or poor, boisterous or quiet, was of a like - predators who put on a mask, like Michael Myers hunting babysitters, and told you whatever you wanted to hear.

And for some God forsaken reason, she was drawn to them. Every man was not like that, she decided, but every man she was attracted to was. Therefore, she designed to withdraw, for it was better to have no one at all.

That didn't pan out. Like anyone, she needed love and companionship, and going without it was like having a buzz saw in her stomach, ever spinning, threshing her insides to paste.

Her wanting a sprawling kingdom, she thought, sprang from her need for love: She could not have the deep, intimate love of one person, so she would make due with the superficial love of a million. And maybe...in all those loyal subjects...she would one day find what she'd been looking for.

But what point was there? What point was there to anything? Even without that musclebound bastard - wanting her beauty just like every other man to sniff around - the ceaseless pressure of keeping Bartertown afloat was killing her.

Now there was tomorrow to worry about.

Her stomach rolled and she swallowed a bitter rush of acid. It was over...all over...no matter what she did, she was going to lose. Let him in and submit or fight and die. Her hopes, her dreams...all broken like a pane of glass on the ground.

She thought of the gun in her nightstand as she often did these days, hidden beneath a cashmere scarf, a compact .38 revolver, chrome with black grip. It was Daddy's and he carried it with him always, tucked into a shoulder holster hidden by specially tailored coats - at home, to the country club, even to board meetings. She saw herself taking it out, pressing it to her temple, and pulling the trigger. A flash, a bang, and it would all be over.

Only she couldn't. She was sad, depressed, and empty, but she didn't hate herself, nor did she want to die. She wanted to be happy, that was all. Like anybody would. The woman who kills herself does not revel in her dejection, rather, she yearns for joy, and only commits suicide when she becomes convinced that it will forever elude her. Lola still held hope...and as long as one has hope, they can weather any storm.

Her hope was fading, though, and she was growing weary. She didn't want to die, but she also didn't want to be the -

Someone rapt on the door and her heart blasted. She jerked an apprehensive glance at it and swallowed thickly. The outside world was calling...reality invading her fantasy-bound sanctum with bad news...always bad news. She should ignore them...they'd go away eventually.

Instead, she folded her arms defensively over her chest and crossed her legs at the knee. "Come in," she called, a quaver in her voice.

The knob turned, and Leni poked her head in, a big, beaming smile on her face as per usual. Leni was simple-minded and thus immune to the stresses and worries of life. Lola valued the shrewd intelligence she inherited from her father, but there were times she wished she was like Leni - innocent, untroubled, and unburdened. Leni floated airily through her day with the unfettered freedom of a cloud, and in all the time Lola had known her, her smile never faltered and the radiant glow about her countenance never dimmed once.

"Hi," Leni chiruped, then furrowed her brows. "How are you feeling?"

Earlier, Lola told Leni she was ill. It wasn't a lie. "I'm fine," Lola said, touched by the girl's genuine concern. "Thank you."

"Do you feel up to seeing Lynn?" Leni asked and glanced over her shoulder, "she's right here."

Lola's stomach turned. Lynn. She probably wanted to talk about things having to do with...tomorrow, and that was the last thing Lola needed right now. As leader of Bartertown, however, she was obligated to meet with her defense minister. "Yeah, send her in."

Leni stepped aside, and Lynn entered, followed by Lincoln. Lola darted her eyes away from him because to her he represented everything she could have had and everything she would lose tomorrow. She didn't know him very well...whether he was a good man or not...but she had planned to teach him. He could impregnate every woman in the village, but she would shape him into her ideal, and to her he would come home at the end of the day. That wasn't going to happen now - her kingdom, her admirers, her one-day lover like a knight on a noble steed, all of it was castles in the air. The only thing she had to look forward to was being taken as Ginormous's bitch...or shooting herself to escape. Which fate was worse? She had hope now, but she doubted she would once he and his men overwhelmed them. Once they won, her hope would extinguish and she'd turn into one of those women who believe that happiness will always elude them...one of of those poor, pitiful wretches who really do kill themselves.

Leni slipped in behind them and closed the door, standing dutifully there and ready to serve in whatever capacity was required of her. Lola was silently grateful for her presence. Lynn approached and sat in a chair facing the bed, her skin sallow and peaked. A bulge under her shirt marked the spot where she was shot. When Lola heard what happened, her gord rose and she nearly vomited. She didn't, though, not until Lera left and she was alone.

As there was only one chair, Lincoln stood next to Lynn and crossed his arms, his head tilted slightly back and his chin jutting defiantly out. Lola fluttered her eyes to his and then away with a dropping sensation when she saw what she took to be unveiled contempt.

He hated her.

But why wouldn't he? He didn't understand her or why she did the things she did. Maybe he would understand if she explained the contents of her heart, but while in fantasy the idea of being metaphorically naked before a man was appealing, just the thought of doing it now made her feel like she was going to puke again.

She lowered her gaze to the floor like a scolded dog, hoping that she didn't look the part as much as she felt it. "How's your arm?" she asked her French tipped toes.

"Hurts like a bastard," Lynn responded, then, without further preamble, "what are we doing tomorrow?"

Lola's intestines tangled and molten acid bubbled up in her esophagus. She didn't know what they were doing tomorrow. Aside from dying. She was determined to fight for her life and her dreams, but she didn't think they had a chance in hell of succeeding. Lynn regarded her with urgent anticipation, and Lola slipped her fingers anxiously into her hair. "Trying to survive," she said shortly.

"We need something specific," Lynn said impatiently. "A concrete plan."

Lola sighed and held up her hand. "I-I can't do this."

A dark shadow ran across Lynn's face. "You have to do this, you're in charge."

You have to do this...and that, and that, and this, and that and this andthisthatthisthisthatthatyouaretheleaderanditallfallsonyou. Lola felt herself flushing and beginning to shake but was powerless to stop it. Blood crashed against her temples and the edges of her vision strained. All of her darkest fears, lonely nights, insecurities, pain, hatred, and everything else she'd been bottling up her entire life burst against her in a choking deluge that threatened to spill from her in a black torrent. "I don't want to be the leader," she snapped; her voice was childish and petulant even to her own ears, the whine of a spoiled little girl who wasn't getting her way, but she didn't care, didn't care about anything. "Keeping everything together is literally killing me. I don't sleep, I don't eat, I have ulcers, I can't stand it anymore." The pitch and timbre of her voice rose with her passion until she shook like a tea kettle on a hot stove. Lynn stared at her with an inscrutable expression that Lola didn't like. Lynn always hated her and truth be told, Lola hated her too; Lynn was everything she was not - confident, self-possessed, and independent, and Lola envied her the way she did Leni. Envied her so much it made her sick and stoked hatred in her heart. She was probably enjoying this, relishing it as though it were an amusing stage performance. "I'm not Daddy and I'm sorry I ever tried. This job has been nothing but stress and I'm done."

She realized what she was saying as she spoke the final three words, and her stomach twisted in a queer and keen combination of trepidation...and release, like a crushing hand falling away from a crumpled throat. Once, she was terrified by the thought of not being in charge, and lobbied hard to replace Daddy. Now, the prospect of living life as a normal person was both terrifying and exhilarating. Let someone else worry about whether or not there was enough food for everyone, or enough gas, let someone else lay awake at night and take pills for their overwrought nerves.

Lynn gaped in surprised, then snapped her jaw closed and shook her head like a woman coming out of a trance. "Lola," she said lowly, "look, I know it's hard on you, okay? But right now we need you to -"

"No," Lola said and whipped her head away. A tiny pinprick of shame burned in the center of her chest. Lynn was going to say we need you to lead and that was true, but she was no leader. She sighed and relaxed her posture contritely. "Bartertown deserves better than me."

Lynn let out a deep breath and flicked her eyes to the empty spot on Lola's right as though she couldn't bring herself to look at Lola directly. The words came hard, halting."You're a good leader," she confessed, "you've done a lot of stuff I don't agree with and that's shit's gotta change, but you've kept us going and...you can't flake right now."

"I have no idea what I'm even doing, Lynn," Lola snapped and threw up one hand, "I don't know anything about war. I don't know anything about...fortifications or whatever. You're better at this than I am. You be the leader."

The color drained from Lynn's face, and her eyes widened in alarm. "I-I can't be leader," she stammered, "n-n-not of everything. I wouldn't know the first thing. I-I'd tank." She looked like a doe in the headlights, and Lola was honestly surprised. As much as she didn't like Lynn, Lola had to admit: She was a competent head of security and adept at managing people, time, and resources. Ruling Bartertown entailed the same things as Lynn's current position, only on a slightly larger scale.

Okay, a much larger scale, but if anyone could do it...it was Lynn. She said as much, and Lynn shook her head ardnalty from side to side. "N-No, I-I can't. I'll fail."

The words, and the heartfelt tone in which she spoke, hung heavy in the air between them. Lola searched her eyes and was stunned to see raw, primal fear, the same fear she sometimes glimpsed when she glanced unguardedly at a reflective surface.

She chose Lynn as her head of security (instead of someone she actually liked) for many reasons, the most important being her dedication to Bartertown and its ideals. Before he died (probably from stress of his own), Daddy spoke very highly of Lynn; Lola pinched her nose and gave her the position because Daddy never picked a loser, if he said she was good, she must be. Over time, Lola discovered that she was - she wanted many of the same things from Bartertown that Lola herself did, and she would give achieving those aims all of her time, energy, and blood. For her, as for many, Bartertown was a last refuge...there was nothing else beyond it, and she would die here if she had to because it was worth dying for.

If Lola knew her half as well as she thought she did, Lynn was afraid of the total responsibility that comes with the helm, afraid that she would not be good enough, that she would make the wrong choices and sail it into the ground. Lola first felt a rush of satisfaction at Lynn all but admitting what a good job she'd done, then a tiny twinge of sympathy because she knew those fears all too well.

But better Lynn than her. "Well, I can't do it anymore. Especially not now."

"You can't just step aside at a time like this," Lynn argued, "you're the leader and Bartertown needs you."

Lola opened her mouth to reply, but Lincoln cut her off. "How about this? Lynn and I will handle the war stuff, you stay here and hide or whatever you wanna do, then afterwards, you take back over. Have an election to find a new queen or something." He looked from her to Lynn, his gaze lingering on the latter just a little longer than it should have, then donned a smile that looked forced, but only a little. "This place is gonna be around awhile, might as well start thinking long term."

"Alright," Lynn said, and turned in her chair to face him. "What do you think we should do?"

"First," he said, "we need to figure out how many people to put on each side of the wall. The stiffest fighting's probably gonna be in the west. It's also the most protected. We got the trench, the pikes, and the cars. The chances of them getting through are really fucking low. The south and east sides worry me a little. I say we spread most of the people and heaviest firepower between them. A few good people can hold the west. How many of those machine guns are up?"

Lynn thought for a moment. "Three on each side. If you want fewer people on the west, they should have more of the pipe bombs."

"Do you think we should have fewer people there?"

"I dunno. Like you said, it's the best protected side, but unless we have people on it shooting, they're gonna overrun it. If that's where the worst is gonna be, it makes sense to have more people there." She looked up at him. "You know?"

Lincoln shifted his weight, and Lola was reminded of a high school teacher settling in for a debate with a particularly gifted student. "Alright, what about the other sides? Should we just do it equal? How many fighters do we have?"

"One-fifteen," Lynn said uncertainly.

A sharp ripple clawed through Lola's stomach. She knew there weren't many, but not that few.

Lincoln nodded. "Alright. We put a roughly equal number on each side. All the cars need to go on the east and south sides, though. We got the trench on the west and the rocks on the north but not much else on the others."

"Maybe we should put more on the east and south walls," Lynn fretted. "But if we do that, shouldn't most of the heavy artillery go on the west? That way we can have fewer people but doing more damage."

At the door, Leni went on smiling, though there was a strained quality to it now, as though it were beginning to slip and she was fighting to hold it up. She was simple, but she wasn't stupid, she fully understood what was happening and why. I'd rather, like, die then let those men take me alive, she told Lola earlier as she served tea. She lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. They'll do bad stuff to us. Real bad stuff.

I know, Lola spat. She didn't mean to, but the implicit meaning of real bad stuff dropped into her stomach like a Mentos into soda, causing a chemical reaction that nearly had the same results. Leni wasn't fazed. I'll shoot myself before I let that happen. Lola didn't know if she would actually do it, but she certainly had the means; like almost everyone in Bartertown, Leni owned a handgun, and since Ginormous advent, she'd taken to carrying it on her at all times. She wore it in a holster around her left thigh. One day, she brought Lola breakfast in bed, then propped her leg on the edge of the bed and pulled the hem of her dress up to proudly display it. Look, she preened, Lynn gave me a thingie for my gun.

The thought of Leni, always bright eyed and smiling, putting a pistol to her head and wincing in expectation as she squeezed the trigger disturbed Lola more than it had any right to.

Humming ruminatively, Lincoln gave a slow, brooding nod. "Yeah, that would work. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna be on that side. If you ask me, you should be on one of the weaker ends."

"The east wall," Lynn said instantly, "I'll be on the east wall and Lana can be on the gate."

"Is she a good fighter?"

Lynn looked at him like he asked what color the sky was. "Uh, yeah. My best."

"Good," he said.

Shortly thereafter, Lynn, Lincoln, and Leni left, and Lola was alone.

She did not sleep for a very long time.


	13. Soon

It was well past 1am, and the icy face of the moon shone its ethereal light upon the empty desert, the flat hardpan drenched in white luminescence and the far hills standing black against the stars. A cold breeze swept out of the highlands and rustled the scrub blanketing the sandy ground, bringing with it the high, lonesome cry of a coyote from somewhere in the night. Though seemingly abandoned, the Mojave teemed with unseen life, predator and prey dancing the same steps since time out of mind; mice, birds, rabbits, spiders, and a horse still saddled six months after its owner was killed and it wandered off into the wastes. A bobcat watched from atop a low, flat rock as the horse made its way toward the mountains, one metal stirrup dragging limply through the dirt. The cat, its underside pressed flush to the warm stone, lifted its butt slightly, tensing for the pounce...then something moved to its right, and it whipped its head around. An iguana stared up at it in reptilian terror, its slitted pupils dilating as its life presumably flashed before its eyes.

The cat moved, and the iguana spun to flee, but one big paw came down and pinned its tail to the rock with a faint crack of tiny bones breaking. The creature pulled free of the appendage and scurried safely into a crevice; the cat regarded the wagging tail with intense curiosity, then flopped onto its side and batted it like a playful kitten with a ball of string, its hunger momentarily forgotten.

Far to the west of Bartertown, well beyond Sir. Ginormomus's encampment and the highway marking the edge of his territory, fires dotted the untamed wilderness like scattered embers, each one representing a cluster of humanity never numbering more than forty. Drab, dirty faces crowded around, some dancing, some praying to strange pagan gods, and others still simply staring, exhausted, defeated, meditative, or all three. The years following the Collapse had not be kind to them, and like a ship without a till, they had already begun to stray. They were Americans once, but with every passing day, they drifted farther. One group was lead by a prophet of God with four wives who was the only man on earth privy to the Lord's secret commandments...thou shalt marry many, and thou shalt marry them young. Another was headed by a wizened, white haired Indian who claimed to be over 200 years old and promised that the _Aha Makhav, _or Mohave People, would overspread the world, and that _Matevilya, _their creator, would one day return and drive the other groups out of the area.

Most of these settlements were semi-permanent, moving only when forced by war, famine, or drought. Uneasy peace held sway, but the the occasional skirmish broke out, mainly when someone crossed onto someone else's turf. The previous week, a protracted gun battle between elements of two groups saw six men on one side and eight on the other pinned behind boulders and taking pot shots at each other. Three were wounded and one was killed before they called a truce and went home like kids breaking from their play at the end of the day. In the badlands, death and fighting went with the territory - shooting a man was today what flipping someone off or calling them a dirty name was ten years ago. The desert dwellers had become so accustomed to dying that losing a friend or comrade moved them little more than losing a dog. The oldest of the tribes west of the highway had been perched on the east shore of the Colorado River since two years after the Collapse, and the newest had recently arrived from the coast. The former began as a refugee caravan of 200, but its population had dwindled to twenty-eight, its people dying in dribs and drabs. Forty were killed in a systematic pogram by Sir. Ginormous's men before they crossed the highway - he was certain that the men who killed his wife and daughter were among their ranks, just as he was sure they were in every group he encountered.

None ever were, though; they were always out there, always laughing at him; always getting away with it the way they got away with it when he was weak, wounded, and too much of a cuck to fight back. He could butcher a million men, and even if he got the bastards, even if they confessed, he would never truly kill them. He realized this and stopped trying, but there were times he relapsed, like now, standing before the cross from which Bobby Terry Parker hung. The redneck's chin lolled limpy against his chest and his chest pulsed with the rapid pace of his breathing. A cold gust of wind whipped Ginormous's cape like bat wings, and amber firelight bathed the front of his hockey mask, glinting in his hard, hate-filled eyes like muzzle flashes. Bobby Terry was more assuredly not involved in the rapes and murders that haunted Ginormous's every waking moment, but he would have been, given half the chance. Oh, he was cringing and servile now, but if Ginormous was weak the way he once was, he would hurt him and everyone he loved. He would fuck his little girl on the ground, choke his wife, cut Chandler's face, and set him on fire so quick he'd leave skid marks.

Beside him, Chandler stared up at the dying man with revulsion; nose crinkled, lips screwed up, and Adam's apple bobbing as if struggling to hold back rising bile. A silvery strand of moonlight traced the jagged scar running the length of his face, and Ginormous recalled their first day together, Chandler balled up and rocking back and forth on the blacktop and Ginormous himself sitting against the front tire of an abandoned Chevy Lumina with Utah plates, his burned body wracked with chills and throbbing with such mind numbing agony that he would have shot himself if he had a gun. The physical pain, however, did not compare to the bitter anguish within. The shrieks that tore from his daughter's throat reverberated through his skull, and every so often, against his will, he turned his head to the spot where she lay. Her face, battered and bloodied, stared sightlessly into the milky sky, mouth open in a silent screen, eyes clouded with death; her neck was mangled and broken; her dress, blue with floral print, was hiked up around her hips; and her pink panties were snagged on one of her feet. Blood oozed from between her thighs and her features were twisted in terror. He fought to keep from looking directly at her, knew vaguely that he would go irrevocably mad if he did, but his neck muscles twitched and he found himself staring at her, seeing every detail, remembering every bath he'd ever given her, every bedtime story, every kiss and cuddle and piggyback ride.

Deep inside, something snapped, and cold, blessed numbness flowed through him like nepenthe to Lovecraft's outsider. He'd make them pay...he'd make them all pay. He looked at the boy; his eyes were just as vacant as Cryandia's, his flesh just as dirty and mottled, red cheek scraped raw by pavement and embedded with pebbles. A long, ugly gash, shaped like the crescent moon, started at his forehead and bowed out before terminating at his chin. Blood mixed with tears and trickled down his face in quiet streams.

He would help, Ginormous decided; together, they would rid the planet of scum like the ones who hurt them, then they would build a world where this kind of thing - and all the misery that went before it - could never happen again. At one time, he thought people were fundamentally good, but he saw the truth; the proverbial going became tough, and the mask humankind hid its true nature behind fell away, revealing the awful, wicked countenance below. They needed a master, a ruler to keep them in line, and in the absence of other options, _he _would be that master. He would wield power with an iron hand and make certain that his people never forgot that the wages of sin was death; he would draw a hard line and anyone who stepped over it would be smited. The old world let itself go to seed, but his would not.

_Are you alright? _he asked the boy. His voice was a low, breaking croak. Chandler kept on rocking, blind and deaf to the world around him. Ginormous tried to shift, but searing agony gripped him and he let out a strangled moan. Raindrops started falling from the sky, and he gave into the dizziness and lost consciousness. If it weren't for the cooling balm of the rain, like blessed baptismal waters, he wouldn't have made it through that first awful afternoon. On waking, he was able to get to his feet, gritting his teeth through the pain; he tried to approach Chandler, but the boy shook like a skittish dog and sobbed hysterically. _I won't hurt you, _Ginormous said over his shoulder at one point; he was woozy with pain and rooting through the back of the Lumnia, his knees quivering and his stomach rolling. The sun was starting to go down and they needed a place to shelter for the night or they would freeze to death.

It took much coaxing, but he finally got Chandler into the car, giving him the back seat and sitting behind the wheel.

Over time, Chandler came to trust him, and he came to love the boy as his own. In the beginning, he wanted a better world for himself, but now he wanted it for Chandler, and nothing is more doggedly determined, or dangerous, than a man doing what is best for his child. It may not be the best for you, your child, or even himself, but it is never wrong.

Never.

Bobby Terry tried to lift his head, but was too weak. He uttered a low, wordless cry in which Ginormous found immense satisfaction. For weeks, months, he and Chandler wandered in the desert, following broken highways and meeting broken people all because of men like Bobby Terry; ignorant, hateful, living only for their own pleasure, consequences be damned. They were alone for the first two years, a boy who couldn't speak and a man covered in scars, his horror movie face always hidden. In Shelley's _Frankenstein, _Victor Frankenstein creates a monster that neither he nor anyone else can bear to look at, a monster who wants only what any creature wants, but is rejected and shunned again and again before becoming as ugly on the inside as it was on the outside. He, Ginormous, was that monster, and men could not lay their eyes upon him without being confronted with their own brutality. In his ghoul like face, they saw themselves, and they hated it, hated _him. _

They listened when sermonized, though, for he knew them, and every word resonated in their hearts. He spoke to their hopes, their dreams, and their innate selfishness, promising them everything they could ever want if only they believed on Him and _worked _for it. _It won't be easy, _he told them, _but with discipline and hard work, we can rise from the ashes. _He stood on a soap box in a dusty no name village on the outskirts of the wastelands where the grass was brown and brittle and the trees thirsted for rain. A crowd of townspeople with dumb faces were fanned out before him in a slipshod semi-circle, awestruck by his message, their unseeing eyes finally fluttering hesitantly open and seeing the light.

His disciples grew in number as he toured the Mojave like Christ spreading his Gospel, a few at first, then more, then more, then finally enough that he no longer had to ask or trade for the things he wanted, he could just take them. From the weak to the strong, from the meek to the bold, from the dead to the living. _There are too few resources in this world for us to share with the weak and the corrupt. Only one of us can flourish on what is left, let it be us, then, the Chosen People, the ones making a better way and _not _wallowing in the filth of our own devices_. They swept through the desert like a righteous plague, laying waste to every outpost, attacking every settlement, always moving in a majestic fleet of trucks, Jeeps, retrofitted sedans, dirt bikes, and motorcycles. Along the way, they picked up more followers, like a snowball rolling downhill - cops, bikers, madmen, the remains of vanquished enemies, even members of a National Guard unit stationed near Barstow during the end.

Soon, Ginormous told himself, soon they would settle and begin the work of rebuilding. _Soon _came the day his men ambushed a fuel tanker being escorted by supercharged muscle cars along Route 92. The survivors were taken prisoner and the tanker driven into camp by Rusty, who was a truck driver before the Collapse and happened to be in the war party that took it. Chandler interrogated the prisoners, two men and a woman, and they told him they came from a settlement called Bartertown where things were _almost like the old days. _Intrigued, Ginormous sent scouts, and they returned two days later with pictures, drawings, and tales of seeing livestock and _lots of women_. One of the photos was a snapshot of a blonde woman with haughty eyes and arrogant features - she resembled Carol only passingly, but he felt the same clutch in his guts that he did when he first laid eyes on his late wife all those years ago.

In that moment, he decided that soon had finally come.

He, Chandler, Needles, Rusty, and a dozen others approached the next day under the pretense of having rescued one of their people from a gang of thieves, only to have the poor thing die of his wounds later on...after revealing Bartertown's location. _Perhaps a partnership between our peoples would benefit both of us_.

They opened a trade agreement whereby Ginormous would offer security for future transports and, as per a secret protocol, keep other groups from crossing the highway. _Keep the scum away, _Lola said disdainfully. They were meeting in the palace sitting room on a blazing hot late spring afternoon, facing each other across a large oaken table. Lola wore a flowing pink dress and white gloves; her jewelry twinkled in the light of the sun - tiara, bracelets, necklaces, rings - and each moment in the presence of her perfect femininity, something he had sorely missed from the rough and tumble women he'd grown used to, drove him more and more insane with desire. _I don't want any of them on this side of the road. Turn them back, scare them, I don't care, just keep them away from us. _

He readily agreed, only he wouldn't scare the interlopers...he would make them ride crossbeams.

That day, he proposed to her - a marriage to strengthen their alliance the way European royals did in the days of old.

She flatly rejected him, the look of disgust in her eyes both infuriating and enchanting him. _We have plenty of men, _she assured him, _we don't need to marry out of our group. _

While there were indeed men in Bartertown, Ginormous was certain it was a knee jerk excuse. He sent raiders anyway - let's see how many men you have now. The walls weren't finished in those days, and the killers struck at night, sneaking in with guns, hatchets, and swords, harvesters come to reap and take away.

Still, Lola would not marry, would not grant him access to her heart, bed, body, and community.

Finally, resigned to the fate she chose, he elected to stop asking.

"Have the men ready by mid-morning," he said now. Bobby Terry had slipped either into coma or death, the icy wind mussing his lank hair as if to offer him comfort. "We move out at noon."

Chandler, gazing still at the limp body on the cross, nodded. "Alright." His voice was low, faraway. He studied Bobby Terry with a distant expression in his eyes, perhaps engrossed in memories of that day by the road. He blocked much of it out, but if he picked at the scab, it would come off, exposing the festering wound beneath. Ginormous frowned deeply and laid his hand firmly on Chandler's shoulder, startling him. "Go to bed," he said, parental authority creeping into his voice. "We have a long day ahead of us."

The haze in Chandler's eyes cleared and he nodded. "Alright, yeah." He glanced once more at Bobby Terry, then hurriedly away, as if from the pain the dead man stirred in him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I love you," Ginormous said earnestly.

"I love you too," Chandler replied.

After he was gone, Ginormous stared up at redneck for a moment, then returned to his tent. He untied his cape and draped it over the back of the chair. The survey map was still spread out on the table, arrows aiming at Bartertown like fingers of doom. He went to the bed, sat, and bent to unlace his boots. He carefully removed his mask and laid it on the nightstand, then stretched out, the cot's metal rigging creaking tiredly beneath his weight. He half rolled to his side and picked up the picture of him, Carol, and Cryandia. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he held it up to his face and stared intently at their smiling faces. Sometimes, like now, it was hard to believe they really existed - if it weren't for this photograph, he'd have passed them off as the fever dream of a lonely college professor too timid to make a family outside of his own addled mind.

They definitely weren't, though, the frame and the tarnished golden band on his finger gave testament to the past's tangibility. There was once a woman who loved him, who truly cared for him, who dried his tears and bore his daughter. Was that not the ultimate pronouncement of devotion? Anyone can think you beautiful when you're in your best clothes and smiling, but only true love sees you at your worst and does not flinch. Only true love stands...everything else fades away.

Lola would fade.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. She did not love him. That much was clear. She never had and she never would, no matter how many of his children she had or how long she spent in the throne next to his. She would always want something else, her heart would always be beyond his reach even if her body was not. Carol's love for him was a blossoming flower deeply rooted in fertile soil, Lola's would be a dandelion, picked and crushed on the pavement. She would never be another Carol, and the babies she gave him would be as cold and loveless as her. A rotten vine does not yield ripe fruit, nor would Lola Loud birth anything but foundationally defective children.

The thought occurred to him to kill her, have Chandler make a cross and nail her to it in the middle of Bartertown. Let her writhe and beg for mercy in front of her people, then leave her body there until it decayed enough to fall off on its own. He refused to, however, because more than any death he had ever caused, Lola's would be deeply personal. Killing her would be like baring his wounded heart to the world, and he was loathe to undertake such a flagrant display of weakness. He would be strong and bear her lack of genuine love with grace and dignity. He would let her raise the children and see to her own affairs while he governed.

He wished Carol and Cryandia were here with sudden, gutshot intensity; he would he happy then, he just _knew _it.

They were dead and gone, however, buried beside a highway that he could not find again even if he wanted to. He would have to make due with what he had.

And after tomorrow, that would be Lola.

* * *

Seven miles to the east, Lynn climbed one handed down a ladder from the catwalk, her bad arm dangling at her side. Lincoln stood on the ground, ready to catch her if she fell, but she made it under her own power. "There," she said, her breath puffing out in front of her, "_now _I'm done."

It was closing in on 2'o'clock and despite her aching shoulder, Lynn hadn't stopped moving since they left the palace at nine. Lincoln wasn't one to mollycoddle, but he'd been on her ass to take a break for over three hours lest she fall over dead. She was a stubborn bitch, though, and she brushed aside all of his concerns with increasingly strained patience until she finally snapped at him. _I'll be done when I'm done, okay? Leave me alone. _

All he could do was throw his hands up. _Fine, keel over. Lotta help you'll be tomorrow._

_Fuck you, dick, _she shot back. He shook his head, went down the ladder, and waited. That was fifteen minutes ago, a brief timespan that left her looking more exhausted than before; her glassy eyes were unfocused and dizzy, her skin was coated in sweat and grit, and the hair around her ears and temples stuck out at harried angles.

"You sure?" he asked. "No boulders you wanna move up hills? No mountains you gotta move?"

After leaving Lola, they gathered all of the able-bodied adults in front of the security office - a narrow facade squeezed between two shops - and assigned them to one of four battle groups composed of 28 troops apiece. Lincoln, Lynn, Lana, and a woman named Lauren took command of a platoon each. Lynn's orders - discussed with Lincoln beforehand - were to defend only; if Ginormous's men retreated, the defenders were not to pursue them unless directed otherwise. Lynn wanted to go after them in the event of a fall back (_to finish the job)_, but Lincoln urged caution. _What if it's a trap and they rip us to shreds? We're digging in here, who's to say they're not doing the same out there? _He nodded to the wall - and the vast, unbroken expanses of desert beyond. She flattened her lips in thought, clearly seeing his point but not liking it. _We fight them as they come, _he said.

_What if they regroup and come back? _she asked. _I don't wanna spend my life worrying about them. I want the threat neutralized. _She gave a girlish pout that stirred Lincoln's middle and made him want to kiss her. She was cute when she strategized.

_We'll cross that bridge if we come to it, _he said. _Right now, I'm just worried about repelling the invasion. Offenses come later._

She relented with a sigh of acquiescence. _Fine. We won't run them down like dogs...unless their numbers are really low. _

He started to deny her even that, but changed his mind. If they could advance on Ginormous's men and finish them off without being lured too far from Bartertown, then he was for it. _Alright, _he said, _if their numbers are low. _

That made her brighten, like the sun emerging from behind a bank of storm clouds, and Lincoln's heart pounded at her beauty. She may not be beautiful by old standards - in fact, she may have been considered plain before the Collapse - but she was still the most striking woman he had ever seen outside of his wife, even more so than Ronalda. Her limpid brown eyes, like murky forest pools, were filled with a bewitching mix of strength and vulnerability that arrested his gaze. She would always stand fast, but she needed love and tenderness too; she would fight, but she would also revel in being cuddled and attacked with affectionate kisses. Her lips, though thin, were earnest, and soft against his, like downy sheets. The faint memory of her taste lingered in his mouth, and his fingers tinged with the sensation of her hair sliding through them. He surreptitiously studied her body, and decided that it would fit his perfectly from any angle.

After dividing the defenders, Lynn opened the armory and passed out a mixed bag of shotguns, hunting rifles, AK-47s, AR-15s, M-16s, Uzis, HK's with rocket propelled grenade attachments - Lincoln even spotted a M1921 Thompson (Tommy Gun, for the uninitiated) with a forearm grip and circular drum magazine.

The line eventually petered out, and Leni came last, her hands clasped behind her back and her perma-smile where it always was, lending her the appearance of a small girl. "Hi, Lincy," she said, "I'm, like, here for my gun."

Lincoln knitted his brows and tilted his head in bemusement. He'd seen people acting in unexpected ways - a tiny, pious Christian woman beating the shit out of a would be rapist, a clumsy, gangly nerd who moonlighted as a calm, self-assured marksman with a steady hand, a cute little girl in pigtails chomping cigars like a thirties newspaper editor (_I want pictures of Spiderman on my desk by noon_) - but though he put nothing past no one, he could not visualize sweet, child-ike Leni wielding a rifle and killing people. He didn't even expect her to participate; in fact, he got the idea she would stay in the palace with Lola. "Why do you need a gun?" he asked, putting a teasing spin on the question to hide his incredulity.

She responded with an eye-roll, which Lincoln was beginning to think was an official language in Bartertown. "To shoot bad guys, duh."

"You don't want to do that, do you?" he asked dehortingly.

"Nope," she said, "but they started some, so there's gonna be some." She nodded as if to punctuate her sentiment.

He looked at Lynn for help, and, too, rolled her eyes. "She can shoot. I taught her myself."

"Yep," Leni said, "everyone had to learn. It's not that hard, Lincy. You just aim the pointy part at what you want to die and pull the thingamajig."

Lincoln favored Lynn with a strained smile. _She doesn't even know the parts, _he mouthed.

_She can shoot, I _told _you, _she replied. She turned, reached into the shed, and came out with an M4 carbine. Leni's eyes lit up and the corners of her lips curled in a devilish smile. "Come to mama."

Lynn grabbed a couple magazines from the hold and passed them to Leni. "Remember the jungle technique I showed you?" she asked.

Leni favored her with a blank stare.

"Where you tape the magazines together," Lynn explained, "one upside down so all you have to do take it out, turn it over, and jam it back in?"

A memory suddenly came back Lincoln, his wife teaching their daughter to tie her shoes, poised and unendingly patient. In that moment, Lynn reminded him so much of her that he had to look away.

"Oh, the tapey trick," Leni said, "yep, I remember that. It reduces reload time and maximizes efficiency. For more bad guy stopping power."

"That's right," Lynn said with the pride of a master who had taught their pupil well, "and remember -"

"Aim low, shoot high," Leni finished.

Lynn grinned. "Told you she knows her stuff."

He had to admit that she was right.

Happily cradling her assault rifle like a girl with a baby doll, Leni wandered off and Lincoln watched her go, back to wrestling with the juxtaposition between her gentle nature and the her willingness to kill people...even if it _was _justified. They needed all hands on deck, though, and if Lynn said she could shoot, Lincoln trusted her.

With everyone in Bartertown armed, he and Lynn talked it over and decided to have the people put on high alert at 8am - out of bed and preparing for the day - then at their stations by 9. They didn't know when Ginormous would come, but Lincoln imagined it'd be late morning or early afternoon, around the same time he appeared yesterday.

Next, he, Luna, Lana, and Lynn went to see Lisa and collected six dozen pipe bombs, which they distributed evenly along the catwalk. They moved one of the machine guns from the western wall and placed it on the south, then arranged several bomb-wired cars at staggered intervals. Lynn didnt want them too close to the wall. She suggested no more than fifty feet. Lincoln lobbied for twenty.

Which lead to a disagreement.

_The wall's gonna take damage anyway, _Lincoln said. _The blast radius is less than twenty feet -_

_Shrapnel, _she said in a tone that indicated the conversation was over.

_Won't do much. _

She rolled her eyes. _Maybe you can take a face full of ball bearing and walk it off, but I doubt my women on that side can. _

Well...she had a point, but fifty feet was too far. _Thirty?_

_Forty-five._

_Thirty-five. _

_Thirty-nine. _

_Thirty-seven, _Lincoln said. _Final offer. _

She uttered a high, hitching laugh. _I'm the one in charge of this negotiation, mister. Thirty-seven and a half. _

_Thirty-seven and a quarter. _

She cocked her head and regarded him with something approaching disbelief. _Wow. You're really this stubborn, huh? Thirty-seven and a half, take it or leave it._

It was obvious that she wouldn't know compromise from a hole in the ground, so he agreed. _Okay, I'll take it. _

_Good, _she smirked conceitedly. _That's the closest I was going to let you come. _

He crossed his arms and made a show of having second thoughts. _Actually…_

She arched her brow in challenge. _Don't even. _

He held up a placating hand, and she hummed as if to say _I thought so. _

Past midnight, Lisa tracked them down with a surprise. _Landmines, _she said, _rudimentary, but functional. _At her workshop in the infirmary, she stood aside while he and Lynn examined a dozen mines fanned out across a table. They were flat and rectangular, about the size and shape of a sheet of paper and made of metal, crimped and soldered at the edges. _There's not much charge, _Lisa said, _just enough to blow a leg off, which, I reckon, will suit our purposes. _

_They're perfect, _Lynn marveled.

Lincoln loaded them into a cart, then he and Lynn rolled it through the main gate and buried six each outside the east and south walls, Lincoln digging and Lynn looking on. She thrummed with nervous energy and at one point tried to take the shovel out of his hands. _Let me do this one._

_Get out of here, _he said, _you got shot, remember?_

_Yeah, I remember. I still don't like standing around._

Done, they inspected the defenses, walking the entire parameter of the wall twice because Lynn wanted to be _absolutely sure everything's in order. _They did the same to the interior wall; timbers evenly spaced like rib bones braced one side and sandbags piled fifteen feet high stood along another. Earthen ramparts and breastworks composed of logs, car parts, and more sandbags littered the town. In the event Ginormous's men breached the walls, the defenders could use them for cover. A group of women filled buckets with water from the community pump and carried them to a disused stable, where they would be ready to extinguish any fires that broke out. Back at the infirmary, Lisa and another woman sat vials, bandages, and other medical supplies on a table for easy access. Both wore automatic rifles across their backs and pistols on their hips, the guns seeming woefully out of place in the hospital setting. She expected to be overwhelmed with casualties, and Lynn reluctantly assigned her four assistants, subtracting one from each platoon. They would stay here with Lisa during the battle. _You're too valuable to put on the wall, _Lynn told the doctor.

_I concur, _Lisa replied matter-of-factly. _I will participate if need be as the prospect of fighting doesn't frighten me, however I'd be of more use here than there. _At some point in the past, Lynn and Lana taught everyone to fight and shoot, and Lisa taught them basic first aid; even so, she was the only doctor Bartertown had, which made her the kind of priceless commodity nations go to war over. You can replace a someone like Lola, Lincoln, and even Lynn, but you can't replace a Lisa.

Elsewhere, women set bear traps in front of the wall and dug punji pits, holes filled with wickedly sharp pikes and disguised with foliage; if someone heedlessly stepped into one, their feet would be skewered. The point of pitfalls such as those was not necessarily to kill the invaders, but to take them out of the fight. Lincoln personally didn't care if Ginormous's men lived or died, just as long as they fucked off and didn't come back. He agreed with Lynn, though; if there were enough of them left, they'd eventually make another assault. Depending on what shape Bartertown was in after the conflict, they _should _launch an offensive.

That came later, though, right now his primary concern was Lynn overextending herself. He admired her tenacity, but he was starting to suspect that she was one of those people who didn't know their limit. She flew from place to place like a coked up Tinkerbell, squatted, lifted, carried things, and gave orders only to step in and do it herself when the efforts of her underlings didn't meet her exacting (and possibly panic-fueled) standards. Time was growing short and tomorrow loomed like the rising specter of death. Lincoln felt it like a fist closing around his throat, and from her harried movements, Lynn did too. _You need to sit down for a few minutes, _Lincoln cautioned.

_I'm fine, _she said with a hand wave. She didn't look it. Her skin was wan and her eyes bleary, and every so often she'd move wrong and wince in pain. She only took half a pill because she wanted to be _up and alert_. Lincoln didn't blame her, he'd have done the same, but she was hurting regardless and he didn't like it.

He tried again and again to get her to rest, but she blew him off every time and pushed herself harder...just to spite him, he thought. She dragged a sandbag from one spot on the wall to another because _it looks a little skimpy over here,_ only to drag it back. _Nevermind, I was wrong. _

_Oh? _he asked sarcastically. _First time for everything, I guess. _

She pursed her lips and flipped him off.

_Feeling's mutual, _he said archly. In a way, it was.

Presently, Lynn considered his question. "Nope," she finally decided, "no mountains. I've done everything I can do." She shot a longing look over her shoulder. "For the most part. There's more but it can wait."

They started walking toward her house...or so he thought. Leni lead him the last time, and though he'd been around Bartertown plenty that evening, the unfamiliar network of streets, alleyways, and thoroughfares still confused him. A cold wind blew down Main and somewhere, a shudder slapped a tepid tempo. The lanes were all empty at this hour and the windows overlooking them dark. An uneasy silence held court, and Lincoln expected it to be shattered at any moment by the opening salvo of a surprise raid. He suppressed the urge to look behind him and took a deep, calming breath: Sentries with night vision goggles were keeping watch...if there was anything out there, they would catch it and send up an alarm.

He glanced at Lynn, and the thoughtful glaze in her eyes brought a frown to his lips. She looked like a woman contemplating the nature of life and death...and feeling intimidated. "You okay?" he asked. The words came harder than they should have, his chest throbbed harder.

"Yeah," she sighed, "just tired."

He didn't think that was a lie, but he didn't think it was the truth either. "Yeah, me too," he said honestly. "And kind of nervous."

While that was true, he said it only to coax Lynn into opening up about her own anxieties. She obviously had them, and he wanted her to share them with him. When she didn't take the bait, he leaned a little closer as in collusion. "You?"

She opened her mouth, probably to say no, then thought better of it. "A little," she admitted. "It's just...you know...after what happened on the road I keep thinking about death." She chuckled, but it came out as a whimper, and Lincoln couldn't have stopped himself from putting a protective arm around her shoulder if his life depended on it. She stiffened, and Lincoln thought she was going to pull away, but she surprised him by melting gratefully into him, her body soft, warm, and fitting his just as well as he imagined it would.

A shudder went through her frame, and he held her tighter, their pace slackening. Lincoln's heart slammed sickly, as it hasn't since he was a boy, and his stomach twisted into strange, painful, and exhilarating shapes. Her smell found his nose and he drew it in like the sweetest fragrance, his stomach stirring and his heart blasting harder, quicker, pounding like a drum and sending quaking reverberations into his knees. He got a hold of himself and inhaled through his nostrils, then exhaled slowly like a man staving off a meltdown. "I dunno," Lynn said and rested the side of her face against his chest, "I'm kind of weird right now. I'm...I'm scared we'll lose everything tomorrow. Everything we worked for, everything I want from life...all taken away. Just like it was last time."

Lincoln didn't know how to respond to that. A contrived _it'll be okay _didn't seem right, nor did agreeing with her and encouraging her to wallow. She, like him, like _all _of the survivors, knew just how easily things can wash away. If it happened once, it could happen again...and would, Lincoln figured. People were inherently self-destructive, and will always find a way to suicide, given the time and means.

But maybe...maybe things could change. Maybe all of this would finally open their eyes. He thought of Ginormous and his men, camped somewhere in the wastes, holdovers from the old world going through the steps of a dance best left forgotten. They were selfish and wanted to dominate...to take what didn't belong to them and impose their will on others...which is exactly what lead to the Collapse and to every war, genocide, and dictatorship that preceded it. They weren't the only ones out there, either; the remnants of the world teemed with strongmen, liars, and shamen who preyed on the weak and seeded the world with misery in their quest for wealth, glory, and control. It was a vicious cycle that never ended...and Lincoln doubted a near extinction would halt it. As long as people festered, like germs in a petri dish, they would spread, and their ignorance, selfishness, and prejudices with them.

"I know," was all he could think to say. She sucked a quick intake of breath as though his words were a fist to her guts, and he pressed her flush to his body. "But we can fight to keep it. We didn't fight the last time, we will this time."

The wind picked up, blowing Lynn's hair around her meditative face like silken streamers. "That's all we can do, I guess," she said, a hint of petulance in her voice, a little girl accepting a hard fact of life but not happy about it.

"It is," he said poignantly. "Last time we let it slip through our fingers...long before the Collapse ever happened...but not this time. We'll fight like hell, and we'll make it...or we'll die trying." He resolve steadily rose as he spoke, and when Lynn looked up at him, her muddy brown eyes swirling with the audacity of hope, it solidified. "Together," he vowed. He would die here, not for Bartertown, but for her, and if he was still alive when the smoke cleared, he was disquieted to realize, he would live for her too.

She slipped her arm around his waist and he tensed at the unexpected gesture. She spoke one word, and it sent his heart jolting. "Together," she said.

They were outside of her house now. It looked different in the moonlight, smaller, colder, and less inviting than it had earlier. Lana was posted at the palace until 4, and the windows were dark and lifeless, like the gaping eye sockets of a sun bleached skull. Wind moaned in its flared eaves and rattled the pane. Lynn took a key ring off her belt, inserted one into the lock, and turned the knob. Inside was a pit of darkness broken only by a wide shaft of moonglow that fell through a window and lay across a neatly made bed. Lynn pulled the key from the handle and clipped the ring back where she got it. She turned and looked up at him, their eyes locking. "Well," she said awkwardly, "uh...this is where you get off." Her face blazed scarlet as the double meaning of her statement occurred to her and she darted her eyes down. A soft laugh escaped her throat and she smiled beautifully to herself. "I mean go...this is where you go."

Perhaps it was wishful thinking on Lincoln's part, but her voice lacked conviction...and she didn't care if he noticed, probably _wanted _him to notice.

He made a show of looking around. "I hope I can find my way back. You really should have dropped me off first."

"You're a big boy," she said. She looked up at him once more, and the sly smile playing at the corners of her mouth and the warm light dancing in her eyes captivated him. "You can do it."

The earth crumbled beneath his feet and his stomach shot into his throat. Instead of trying to save himself from the fall, he went with it. He lifted his hand to the side of her face and tenderly brushed his thumb across her cheek. Her smile fell into a serious frown and trepidation crept into her eyes. She did not go into things lightly, he knew, because neither did he. _You can still turn back, _her gaze seemed to say. _If you don't...I'm yours. Just don't hurt me. _

"But I don't want to," he said. Their faces hovered inches apart, their rapid breaths mingling, their eyes staring deeply into their mates'.

Lynn craned her neck back and fixed him with an expression so sincere it boarded on pain, her emotions ripping through the bulwarks surrounding her heart and bubbling to the surface much like his own. There was fear in her face, and for a moment she seemed to waver...then she took a leap of faith into the unknown. "I don't want you to either," she breathed.

Their lips met and he kissed her passionately, his hands reverently holding her face and his tongue moving in time with hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him like a woman to a life ring. His hands ran over her shoulders, down her back, gripped her hips and dragged her body tight against his.

Working in tandem, him pushing and her pulling, they made their way into the darkened house, Lincoln absently slamming the door behind him. He slipped his hands under her tank top and stroked them needily up and across the warm flesh of her sleek back; she slid hers beneath his shirt and explored his naked chest with the hungry urgency of a young girl touching her first boy, the heat of her skin sending shivers down his spine and kicking embers into his already addled mind.

They tumbled back onto the bed, Lincoln on top and Lynn on bottom, and the kiss broke. In the pallor of the moon, Lynn's eyes swirled with hazy fervor, her chest rising and falling as she gasped for air. Lincoln took a moment to admire her, from the fall of thick brown hair fanned out around her head to the gentle slope of her graceful. gazelle-like throat, her lips shimmering with their mingled saliva. His chest swelled with affection, and he braced his hands on either side of her head; she tracked him with his eyes and he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. He trailed ardent kisses down her cheek, to her jaw line, the tip of her nose, the latter making her giggle. The salty taste of her skin intoxicated him and he lost himself to the flames of his rising excitement, his hands undressing her slowly, caressing her tender breasts and her shapely hips. He caught quick flashes of her form in the moonlight, creamy skin burning and aquiver with building arousal, but felt it entire - smooth, silky, flushed with fever. He ran his hands over her chest, and she arched her back, giving herself to his touch with a low, trembling whimper. Her thighs rubbed crisply together as she sought relief from the steadily growing pressure in her middle, her tongue swiping across her bottom lip with a tacky sound and her closed eyelids fluttering like a dreamer in the throes of a paradisiacal fantasy.

Lincoln swept his hands over her like an erotic faith healer, relishing every dip, ridge, and curve of her body, marking her completely with his designs; her fleshy inner thighs, her toned calves, the very soles of her feet. Lynn clamped her bottom lip between her teeth and clutched the sheet in both hands, her head tilting back and a look of rapture upon her features. Tingling sensation singed her every never ending, so intense it zigzagged back and forth between pleasure and pain, always heartfelt and hauntingly beautiful no matter where it fell.

He peppered kisses up her leg, slow, sweet, taking his time and enjoying her as she enjoyed him. At her breast, he wrapped his lips around her nipple and lightly sucked, the sizzling heat of his saliva almost too much to stand. He kissed the globe of flesh bearing it, then her shoulder and neck again. He weaved his fingers through her hair and kissed the side of her velvety throat, then her shoulder, his lips skimming over her collarbone, between her breasts, down her stomach. She panted and grazed her nails across his scalp, his name slipping from her lips in a shaky moan. Wet heat rolled from her center in sickly waves, and Lincoln basked in her wild scent. He kissed the aching nub of her femininity, and she drew a sharp breath through her teeth, her body beginning to mindlessly undulate with the flow of nature. Lincoln teased her clit with his tongue, her animal grunts and high, feline mewls urging him on. He lapped her with agonizing torpidity, long, smooth strokes starting at her leaking entrance and terminating at her pulsating clit. Each pass brought her closer to ecstasy, and her hips moved of their own violation, her core grinding against his face and her toes digging into the mattress.

Finally, when she couldn't take it any longer, she pulled away. "Stop...stop...stop.." she panted.

Lincoln looked questioningly up at her.

"Fuck me," she said. Her voice was shaky and weak, but she didn't care. She could show him...she could show him anything, tell him anything.

He crawled up her length like a big cat stalking the Savanna, and Lynn admired his taut body, her eyes traveling magnetically to the snowy tangle of his pubic hair and his throbbing penis below, her core pinching in anticipation of taking him into her deepest and most secret place. His face filled her world, her heart skipping at the love in his eyes. She touched the side of his face and they kissed, his fingers twinning with hers, pinning her hands to the bed, their sexes aligning and her lips molding around his head. He broke from her mouth and brought his hips against hers in an even, wave-like motion; his rod sank into her flesh and she let out a muffled cry, her nails biting into his back and her heels bracing against his butt. His tip kissed the opening of her womb and he exhaled shakily and paused as if to savor the marriage of their bodies, his expanding and hers contracting, wet, satin walls squeezing him with biological urgency.

Holding her hands tighter, he pulled back, his head raking her insides, then jerked forward again, knocking a yelp from Lynn's throat. He set a steady, driving pace, and she circled her arms around his shoulders, holding on to keep from being swept away on battering surges of euphoria. Every thrust brought her closer, her orgasm taking shape deep in her loins and moving up like an air bubble, getting bigger, hotter, sharper. Her face contorted into beautiful shades of agony, and Lincoln started to shake. She sensed that he was as close as her, and rocked her hips into his pushes, taking him to her limit and unashamedly crying his name like a holy mantra. He lifted his head and their eyes met just before the end came; they squeezed one another's hands, gazed deep into each other's souls, and gave themselves totally. Lincoln swelled and erupted, his molten load spurting against the entrance to her womb and filling her with liquid fire. She threw herself flush with him and came with a loud, wavering cry that she vaguely hoped everyone would hear so they knew...Lincoln was hers, and she was his.

Lincoln fused his lips to hers and made frantic love to her tongue as his sperm left him in long, silvery ropes and disappeared into Lynn's body. When it was over, he rolled onto his side and stared at her as he caught his breath; she lay flat on her back, one had draped across her chest, and gaped up at the ceiling with awestruck eyes, as though she couldn't believe what just took place...but liked it regardless. Lincoln laid his hand on hers and she spared him an inscrutable glance, then her lips spread into a sly smile that she tried to swallow but couldn't fully. "That wasn't bad," she allowed with a hint of faux surprise.

"Did you think it would be?" Lincoln asked and slipped his fingers through hers.

She snuggled up to him, her breasts flattening against his chest, and hooked one leg possessively over his. He rested his arm in the valley of her hip, gripped her butt, and drew her center to his, her dank heat breaking over him like a sinful kiss. "Kind of," she said and shrugged one shoulder. Her eyes sparkled and she giggled girlishly, a high, musical sound like a summer stream flowing over moss covered stones. "You're kind of a dork."

"Am I?" he asked incredulously. He ran his hand slowly up her flank, his fingertips kissing her ridges and contours, worshipping her flesh like a devout Catholic praying the rosary.

She wiggled closer until their noses were touching and their hot breaths puffed against each other's lips, then gently and reveritally caressed his face. "Yeah," she breathed, "but you're my dork."

Lincoln's stomach stirred and he smiled too. "And you're my asshole."

"I am," she said, then her brow pinched severely. "Just don't hurt me, okay?"

There was an abject hint of pleading in her voice that made Lincoln frown. Maybe someone hurt her in the past, or maybe she was still dealing with the mental and emotional after effects of watching the world end, he didn't know, but he could clearly see deep pain in her eyes...a pain like if not identical to the pain _he _felt. Rubbing her nose lightly and lovingly with his, he cupped her cheek and stared into her soul as he promised, "I won't. Ever."

The second time was slower, less urgent; Lynn climbed on top and lowered herself onto him, her hands splayed on his chest and her head bowed, face hidden by her hair, which hung free now. When her boiling heat enfolded him, Lincoln let out a low sigh and held her hips in his hands. She lifted up like a proud phoenix rising from the ashes, tilted slightly back, and established a languid, unhurried rhythm, not needing to rush because while the future was uncertain and they could both be dead tomorrow, right now they had all night. Lincoln held her breasts and made light, deliberate circles against her nipples with his thumbs, teasing them until they throbbed insistently. Lynn arched her back to give him easier access and brought her hips slowly to his, sheathing his entire length and swirling her hips.

Bending over, she found his lips and claimed them, her tongue flicking his and her tempo quickening. He tangled his hands in her hair and lifted against her downward swings. She kissed him desperately, greedily, going faster and faster as her climax hurtled toward her like a speeding train, looming, closer, getting bigger, blotting out the sun, consuming the world. Lincoln threw his arms around her, gave one last thrust, and grunted, his seed releasing into her as a thick, hot geyser and knocking her into her own orgasm. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and let out a shuddering moan. Holding her fiercely, Lincoln rocked his hips, pushing his essence as far as he could; some dribbled out around his pumping shaft and matted his pubic hair, still more dripping onto the sheets, his and hers mingling to form something new, something beautiful, something binding.

When the shakes passed, Lynn rolled off of him and he cradled her from behind, his nose nuzzling the nape of her neck and his fingers lacing over her stomach; a dreamy smile touched her lips, and pleasant weariness settled over her like a warm, comfy blanket. She closed her eyes and scrunched her shoulders, the safe, happy feeling of being in his arms unlike anything she had ever known...stronger, sweeter, and just plain _better_. In her tired mind, she knew, abstractly, that she had found that mythical creature everyone hears rumors about, but few ever see. It was called The One - the missing piece of her soul, the other half of her heart.

"I love you," she said earnestly.

Lincoln kissed her shoulder. "I love you too," he muttered sleepily.

And he meant it. He _did _love her. It scared him - love in this world is ever more fragile and fleeting than it was in the old one - but human beings need to love and be loved. It's in our nature. Maybe it's a flaw, maybe an attribute, but it unquestionably _is_. He might very well lose her tomorrow, but right now, in this one perfect moment, like a sepia toned snapshot frozen in time, he had her, and feeling the bottomless joy he felt now was worth opening his heart...and worth whatever might come.

"I love you too," he repeated.

Then, clutching her protectively to his chest, Lincoln slept.


	14. High Noon

The feeble rays of the new sun crept stealthily across the hardpan, casting shadows out like demons from swine and driving spiders, jackrabbits, and bobcats back to their dens. At Ginormous's encampment, guards walked the parameter, dressed in cargo pants and sweaters to guard against the chill. Their movements were slow and calculated, but like everyone in the settlement, they were tense and on edge; last night, Chandler told them to be extra vigilant because _those bitches might try a sneak attack. _

A sense of expectancy hung in the air like the brooding atmosphere before a thunderstorm. If you looked closely, you would see that their fingers were firmly on the triggers of their submachine gun and that their faces were pinched in concentration. In the wilderness, something moved, and a black man in a safari hat and green fishing vest over a gray sweatshirt spun around, the barrel of his MP5 scanning the dense scrub. He waited anxiously, then laughed to himself when a jackrabbit popped up and bounded off in the opposite direction. A quarter mile down the line of cars encircling the camp, a white man leaned against the rusted fender of a Chevy and smoked a smelly home rolled cigarette. His companion, a swarthy Hispanic teenager, bounced on his heels for warmth and stared worriedly into the east. He came on the picket at 3am after struggling and failing to sleep; he'd been to war, but never against a formidable and entrenched enemy like Bartertown. Everyone was saying it'd all be worth it in the end, but he kept imagining himself being shot in the guts or blown up, and you know what? He didn't think it _was _worth it. He had no choice but to go - if he tried to run, they'd put him on a cross like they did that white guy last night. Fuck _that_. He had a chance rushing the wall at Bartertown, up on a piece of wood, he had _no _chance.

An insomniac owl hooted in the distance, and he jumped, drawing a scornful look from his comrade. "Will you relax?" he asked bitterly around his cigarette. He said several times that the women wouldn't come; _out here we'd kick their asses and they know it. They're staying' behind them walls. Bet me money. _

"Yeah, okay," the boy said with a shamefaced nod. "I just...women, you know?" he laughed as in a shared secret even though he knew nothing about women...inside _or _out. "T-They're crazy."

Dawn marked the beginning of D-Day, and many of the men dreaded the upcoming invasion. The women in Bartertown were fierce fighters, gender notwithstanding, and there were whispered rumors that they were solidly dug in and ready for war. None of _Watu _were military experts, but they weren't complete idiots, and the thought of charging a fortified position didn't sit well with them, even if they _did _have Abe on their side. They were all certain Bartertown would fall, but at what cost? People were going to die, and each man knew with dread certainty it might just be _them _losing life or limb in the pursuit of their leader's better world. The lure of women and stability, the promise of escaping the hardscrabble life they lead now, however, was too strong to ignore. Ginormous scared almost every one of them, but he was right - they needed Bartertown, and whether the women inside knew it or not, they needed them too.

That didn't make the confrontation anymore appealing, though.

At sunrise, Chandler emerged from his tent in camo pants and a black vest over a black tank top, his Tech-9 hanging to one side and slapping against his bony hip as he walked to Sir. Ginormous's tent. Camp was beginning to stir, and he passed several men on the way, each of them looking nervous. Like his adopted father, he despised weakness, and one corner of his mouth turned up in contempt. They weren't strong like him...they cared if they lived or died; Chandler didn't. The thought of dying did not bother him nor did it put him off. He was not drawn to it the way a sniveling, suicidal coward was, but he was not repelled either. Everyone dies sooner or later. It was a fact of life, and life, even the one Ginormous said they would one day have, was not worth hanging onto. Only the weak, the scared did that, they dug their claws in and fought like animals to preserve themselves, but Chander would embrace death when it came. At least in death, he wouldn't have the dream anymore, and in death, he would never be reminded of what happened to him on the side of that highway so long ago. Death was total freedom, and though his Father decried that concept, Chandler secretly did not. Men like him could handle unrestrained freedom.

Because he was strong.

In his tent, Ginormous sat on the edge of the cot lacing his boots, his mask hiding his fire-raped face and his movements deliberate. A kerosene lamp on the nightstand sent low, flickering light across the canvas walls and a .357 Magnum sat next to a dog-eared and faded photograph that Chandler didn't have to see to recognize. The mother and sister he'd never know, taken by the same bastards who took him. "Are you ready?" Ginormous asked without looking up.

"Yes," Chandler said instantly. He'd been ready since the previous afternoon when Rusty returned with proof that Bartertown was putting up defenses. He urged an immediate surprise attack, but in one of his many fits of irregular and schizophrenic morality, Ginormous quashed the notion. _I am a man of honor, _he said, _I gave them two days, they will get two days_. Chandler loved his Father dearly, but like any teenage son, he also thought he could be the stupidest creature on the face of the earth at times. Catching them off guard would have lead to a swift and decisive victory, but the old man elected to do it the hard way.

So be it.

The previous night, Chandler lay awake in bed and stared up at the vaulted ceiling of his own tent, a camp woman whose name he never cared to learn curled up next to him, her ear pressed to his heart and her hand resting on his chest. The cloying, sickly sweet stench of the perfume she drowned herself with in lieu of bathing turned his stomach and the ashtray taste of her mouth lingered on his lips like a bad memory. Like every woman, and man, he'd ever been with, she failed to give him the feelings of love and satisfaction that Ginormous claimed Carol gave him. He wasn't surprised - he had always found sex vaguely repulsive; his body yearned for release but his mind held it in the deep disdain of a minister beholding sin among his flock. To him, his partners were cumsocks to be used and thrown away...and often times, he would forego them and use his hand, since there was little difference between the two. Sometimes, however, he didn't want to be alone - waking from the dreams wasn't as hard or disorienting when someone else was there, and the presence of another gave him incentive to not cry. After three nights in a row of breaking down in tears, he didn't want to do it again.

Usually, with a warm body beside him and the low sound of another's breathing in his ear, he dropped off quickly. Last night, however, he simply laid there, not thinking, not remembering, not looking to the future, just _being. _At noon the next day, he and the others would ride on Bartertown, as though he'd been looking forward to the dark promise of killing and sacking, he now felt nothing. Nothing at all.

That happened from time to time, and he hated it, hated the absence of emotion. He called up the memory of being raped and cut, and it came with practiced ease, so vivid he could feel the sting of penetration, could smell the man's rank breath, could feel the knife teasingly ripping his flesh one stitch at a time. Normally, this would send him into a gasping panic attack, but now, it stirred nary a thing.

Resigning himself to his fate, he let his mind wander, and went back to the invasion. They should have struck sooner. Why didn't Ginormous listen to him? Why did he wave him off like nothing? Wasn't he good enough?

He grappled with thoughts such as these every now and again, and it always lead him to question his standing with the leader. Ginormous was a willful man, and with good reason, but that he didn't fully and unflinchingly accept his advice bothered Chandler. Ginormous pulled him from the brink of death, loved, clothed, and sheltered him as though he were his own son, and like every son, he thought his Father was a dork, but underneath that, he wanted to please him so badly it ate at him. Ginormous not taking what he advised as gospel meant that he wasn't pleasing him, which in turn meant he had to work harder.

"Gather the troops," Ginormous said now. He got to his feet, crossed to the chair, and whipped the cape from its back like magician yanking the cloth from under a fully set table. He tied it around his neck then pulled out an ornate gun belt from the nightstand and put it on. It featured a wide, golden buckle and slots for extra ammunition. He slipped loose rounds in each one then jammed the .357 into the holster.

While he finished preparing, Chandler went out to muster the men, going first to Needles's tent, then to Fang's; they would each command a battalion while Ginormous and Chandler himself each took the remaining two. Needles, tall and lanky with a lime green Mohawk and gauges in his ears, wore a black motorcycle jacket and faded jeans. He looked like a college poser playing punk on a Friday night, but he was a fierce and crafty fighter who placed as little value on his life and safety as Chandler did his. Fang, short and wispy with scraggly black hair and a sparse beard, looked like a barrio fence or crack dealer, but was an LA beat cop in the old days. Chandler wouldn't have believed him if he didn't have his laminate ID badge still stashed away in his wallet.

Next, he rang a large bell hanging from a rickety wooden framework in the middle of the commons, two low, rolling tolls meaning _get your ass here now. _The cross bearing Bobby Terry Parker's body kept infernal watch as everyone drifted over from where ever they were, some coming from the picket, others crawling sleepily out of pup tents. Chandler, Needles, and Fang stood side-by-side-by-side before the crucifix. "Line up in front of your direct commanding officer," Chandler barked authoritatively. "Those of you who will not be engaged in this operation, report to the mess tent and await further instructions."

Last night after dinner, each man reported to a team of clerks who evenly divided them into one of the four battle companies. There was a total of 250 soldiers, with each group numbering 62. Ginormous's and Chandler's both had an addition man from the Medical Corps. The highest ranking doctor in _Watu _(and head of the Medical Corps) was a broad shouldered man with a severe face, steely gray hair, and a hook in place of his left hand named Hogan whom everyone called Dr. Hook. He had a dozen men working under him, most taught by him but a few doctors in their own right. The Corps reps in Chandler and Ginormous's platoons were both National Guard army medics specifically trained by Uncle Sam himself to work under battlefield conditions. The rest of the Corps was to stay behind and set up a triage center in anticipation of receiving the wounded with all of the women being pressed into service as nurses. Except for the prisoners. Ginormous told Chandler the night before that once the women of Bartertown were secure and counted, he would most likely have the three caged women crucified. Not counting them, the number of people not actively deploying was thirty-two.

The men formed neat, single-file lines in front of Needles, Fang, and Chandler; those under Ginormous queued up on Chandler's left. The rising sun fell across the crucifix and cast an ominous T-shaped shadow over the men, as though God Himself were blessing their undertaking...or administering them the last rites. Chandler and Needles distributed weapons and prepacked battle bags containing first aid kits, extra magazines, water and two days worth of rations (in case the invasion somehow turned into a protracted engagement), and other necessities to each of the men. Just as he was finishing, Ginormous strode up, his big boots crunching hardpan and his cape fluttering heroically in the rapidly warming breeze. A hush fell over the crowd, and everyone in line instinctively stood up straighter and held their breath as though afraid of making a single wrong move in front of the leader.

Chandler knelt, unclasped a long metal case, and took out Ginormous's rifle, a compact FERFRANS Special Operations Assault Rifle with a scope, forearm pistol grip, laser sights, extended magazine, strap, and under-barrel grenade launcher and flashlight attachments. He held it out like a footboy presenting a king with his scepter, and Ginormous took it and slung it over his shoulder. He turned to the men amassed before him and swept them with his gaze. No one could could bring themselves to look into his eyes, but none dared look away.

"Today," he started, his voice a low, shaking baritone that projected a strange and contradictory mix of strength and frailty, "we embark on a righteous quest to secure the existence of our people and a future for our children. This is a campaign that none of us wishes to undertake, a war that none of us want. Each and every one of you desires the same things I do: Peace, prosperity, and a world free of needless pain and suffering." His words rolled over the crowd like thunder from heaven. "We've had enough of that. The key to our future and to the survival of our values - indeed our very race - is, unfortunately, locked away by a heartless tyrant who will see her people killed before she will share in our God given destiny. She is mad with power and fears a union of our peoples, for she knows that she will not be able to control a strong and teeming populace. In their hearts, every woman in Bartertown wants as we do, and I pray that we arrive to find her deposed and the gates open to us and to the future."

Chandler couldn't tell where the truth in his statements ended and the lies began...nor did he care.

"If they are not, we will have no choice but to open them ourselves. Each of you here has been assigned to a division and will carry out the tasks commanded of you by your superiors. You are to spare as many of the women as possible and to secure certain locations. A Company - " here he looked at the men lined up in front of him - "our objective is the palace. B Company - " he looked at Chandler's division - "you are to secure the gardens and the stables. Exercise extreme prejudice when defending them. C Company - " Fang's men - "the infirmary. D Company, secure the main gate and prevent anyone from leaving. I want your position entrenched ASAP. Once it is, you are to aim only for the legs and even then only when directly engaged. Raping or otherwise brutalizing the women will result in immediate execution." He looked forbiddingly over the sea of faces spread out before him. "We move out at noon."

He spun and stalked back to his tent, and Chandler dismissed the men. He checked his watch, found that it was 0700, and nodded to himself. Five hours.

Something rustled deep in his stomach, the emotion that he failed to dredge up the night before.

Excitement.

He was excited.

Letting the Tech-9 dangle from its strap, he went off to have breakfast.

* * *

Lynn came awake in the dark like a cat, her eyes wide and her mind instantly clear. The first thing she was aware of was the chorus of aches and pains wracking her body: Her shoulder blazed, her feet throbbed, and her neck was so stiff that when she tried to turn her head, a hot bolt of agony plunged into her skull. The second was the living _warmth _pressed against her back and the gentle weight on her hip. Hot air caressed the nape of her neck and curled fingertips lightly grazed her naked stomach.

The third was Lana's face, revealed in ghostly moonlight, inches from her own. Her mouth was open as though she were about to speak, and she closed it. Lynn was a naturally light sleeper, a trait she honed to a keen edge during her time in the wastelands, where sleep left you vulnerable and exposed to danger. Normally, if Lana worked the late shift at the palace or on the wall, Lynn woke the moment she put the key in the lock. That Lana was able to come right up and kneel down next to the bed before waking her up both disturbed and shamed her. She was _really _comfy in Lincoln's arms, though, and safe too. "It's time to get up," Lana said. She flicked her eyes to Lincoln, then back to Lynn, the faint suggestion of a self-satisfied smirk touching the corner of her mouth. "Knew you had a crush on him."

Lynn felt a smile forming and couldn't do anything but let it come. Did she have a crush on him before last night? She wanted to say no, but looking back...she totally did. She couldn't stop looking at him or thinking about him, which, let's be honest, is complete crush territory. "Maybe a little," she said.

"It looks like a little," Lana replied sarcastically and got to her feet. "Come on, get dressed." She went to her nightstand, opened the drawer, and took out a box of matches. Lynn sat up while she struck one and lit the kerosene lamp, a circle of low, flickering light filling the darkness.

"What time is it?" Lynn asked. She stretched, and the burning in her shoulder flared into a raging inferno. She winced and sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.

Lana glanced at her watch. "Just after six."

Sunrise was in half an hour; there was a lot to do and an unknown length of time to do it in. She twisted around and looked at Lincoln, who lay on his side in a dusty moonbeam, the blanket covering him to the chest. Her smile returned, feeling good and goofy on her face, and she laid her hand on his shoulder. "Hey," she whispered and gently shook him. His eyes flew open and his body tensed. He saw her and relaxed. "It's time to get up," she said and touched his face. He turned his head and kissed her wrist, which made her giggle.

"Five more minutes?" he asked.

She shook her head and ran her fingers through his hair. "Now."

Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a faux disappointed rush. "Alright," he said and sat up, the blanket falling down his torso and pooling in his lap. She leaned in and they kissed, his hand slipping into her hair and his thumb tracing the outline of her ear. She shuddered and pulled away with a laugh.

"That tickles," she whined.

He grinned devilishly. "That's the point." He tilted forward and kissed her; this time his hand went to her breast and squeezed. A pang of desire rippled through her core and she gasped into his mouth. Taking that as a sign of encouragement, he kneaded her nipple with his thumb and sucked her bottom lip; if Lana wasn't standing right there, arms sternly crossed and looking pointedly away, she'd pounce him like a hungry lioness. She leaned her forehead against his and lovingly stroked his face, her eyes staring deeply into his.

"We better stop," she said, "I don't think Lana wants to see this."

His smiled, big and hazy, faltered. "What?" Lynn's gaze went to Lana, and Lincoln half-turned. Lana gave a tight, closed-lipped smile and lifted one hand in a strained greeting. Lincoln flushed cutely and whipped back around. "Oh...uh...sorry."

Pushing the blanket aside, Lynn got up and, naked, went over to her pants, which sat in a heap on the floor. Other articles of clothing, a mixture of his and hers, were strewn about like the debris field of a downed jetliner, bearing silent and traumatized witness to what happened the night before. Lynn picked up her pants and pulled them on, then turned to Lincoln, who sat there with his hands in his lap, looking for all the world like a man waiting dejectedly on a doctor to come and deliver bad news. "You gonna get up?" she asked and stooped to snatch her shirt.

"Can you hand me my jeans?" he asked and shot a nervous glance at Lana, who stared out the window over the head of her bed as though fascinated by the landscape beyond. Lynn looked around, spotted his jeans, and grabbed them, then tossed them to him in a ball. He caught and pulled them quickly on; Lynn caught a flash of his penis being tucked away like a trusty tool at the end of a long, productive day, and her core clutched. She really wished Lana wasn't here - morning sex was the best, and if last night was anything to go by, morning sex with Lincoln would be indescribable.

On his feet now, Lincoln picked up his shirt, shook it out, and slipped it over his head. "Is everyone else up?" he asked Lana.

"Not yet," she said. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, saw that he was decent, and turned. "We gotta wake them up."

Ten minutes later, Lincoln followed Lynn and Lana down Main Street, his breath puffing out in front of him like smoke from a dragon's maw. The town was dark and silent, an icy wind sweeping between the buildings facing the lane. Before leaving, Lynn knelt beside her bed, reached into the space between the floor and the box spring, and brought out an Uzi wrapped in a towel. She held it out to him and shook it enticingly, _Here. _He took it and slung it over his shoulder, then jammed the two spare magazines into his belt. As they walked, Lincoln scanned his surroundings, looking for hidden danger but finding none.

At a side street, they turned left and came to a narrow building with a weathered blue sign over the door, faded white writing on a splintered blue background. SECURITY. Inside, a long counter stood against the far wall, flanking a doorway that lead back to where Lincoln didn't know. A woman sat slouched behind the counter, her chin resting in one hand and her eyelids drooping; When Lynn appeared, she sat up straighter. "Good morning," she said quickly, as though trying to rush past the fact she had just been falling asleep.

"Morning," Lynn said and slapped her hands on the counter. "Can you blow two tones on the PA, please?"

"Sure," she said. She picked up a radio handset and pushed a button - a long, low, ear piercing wail sounded. She clicked it again, and another followed.

Nodding her thanks, Lynn turned suddenly around and Lincoln jumped out of her way; he had no idea where they were going, what they were doing, or what two tones meant, though he assumed it was a prearranged signal.

As it so happened, it was. He, Lana, and Lynn stood in the courtyard fronting the palace as the defenders of Bartertown slowly made their way over, streaming from every street like the waters of a biblical flood, holding a mishmash of guns - rifles, shotguns, he even spotted a crossbow. Lauren, a tall woman with sandy blonde hair whom Lynn placed in charge of a detachment, came striding up and nodded curtly to Lynn. Lincoln glanced at the palace over his shoulder, certain that Lola would be there, but the porch stood empty. For all intents and purposes, she was no longer the leader, and if Bartertown made it through the day, Lincoln hoped it stayed that way.

When everyone was gathered, Lynn looked them over, 100 plus faces all ashen masks of worry and dread. A tense pall hung over the assemblage like looming death and Lynn reflexively gulped. These were her people, and together, they composed everything she was fighting for, every hope and dream she had for a better tomorrow. She felt a deep, spiritual kinship with them, as though they weren't friends and neighbors but family instead, and she would lay down her life for each and every one of them.

Drawing a deep sigh, she stepped forward, moved to speak and say something inspirational, something to express her emotions, but not having the words. "Six years ago, I lost everything I had...like you. Friends, family, my life...I wanted to join the military or become a cop." Her cheeks burned and she fought to keep her gaze from wavering. Those weren't deep, dark secrets, but they, like many other things, were next to her heart, and for her, coming that close had never been easy. After the Collapse, it became even harder. In the old world, weakness was something you rolled your eyes and shook your head at, in this one, it was an invitation to be hurt, a flashing neon sign letting everyone you met know that they could do anything they wanted to you. She had always been guarded because to get by, you _have _to be. The world, then and now, was full of people who'd exploit you, use you, manipulate you, and lie to you for their own gain. That, sadly, is the nature of humanity.

Last night, she opened herself to Lincoln in a way that she never thought she would open herself to a man. She didn't simply spread her legs for him, she revealed her heart and soul, she looked into his eyes with the abandon of a woman who had never known anything but purity, sunshine, and smooth sailing. It was a leap of faith...but one that paid off because he looked at her the same way. Like her, he suffered and built a wall around his heart, but he knocked it down for her, and she knocked hers down for him.

Maybe she was emotional, floating on a cloud of pent-up endorphins released by the love and tenderness of her union with Lincoln, but she wanted to open her heart to Bartertown as well. This was her home and its people were her countrymen. They would not hurt her. And if they did...it didn't matter, because she had Lincoln, and as long as she did, she was finally strong at last.

"I was alone," she continued, "and...I was afraid."

Sensing her distress, Lincoln laid a tentative hand on her shoulder like a shy boy worried his new girlfriend might be too embarrassed by him to acknowledge their relationship in public. She nuzzled him like a cat, a smile that she didn't care to hide touching her lips. "Then I found Bartertown. I wasn't alone anymore, and I wasn't afraid. The people here took me in, and over the past few years, we've worked together to accomplish one goal, to build a future for ourselves and our children."

She sighed. "Now...someone wants to take that away from us, the same type of person who took it away from us last time. Out there -" she jutted her chin toward the wall " - we have nothing. In _here_, we have hope. With Bartertown, we can make it...without Bartertown, we won't."

The crowd rustled and looked at her, each other, and the buildings around them, as if contemplating Lynn's message.

"What we have here is worth fighting for...and it's worth dying for. I don't know about you, but I'm not giving it up. If they want it, they'll have to kill me before I let them have it. We can do this, we just have to work together and we have to stand strong. No backing down, no running away."

For a long moment, no one spoke or moved, then somewhere in the back, someone clapped, then someone else, the applause running through the crowd like a rushing tide and rising to a thunderous crescendo. Whistles, shouts of allegiance, and cheers went up, and Lynn's chest swelled with pride.

"Alright," she called when it died down, "there's still a lot to do and I don't know how long we have to do it. First, I want all the livestock put into the stables. If we run out of room, put them wherever you can, just as long as they're off the streets. Next, I want a couple cauldrons filled with water and heated over fires." Lincoln and Lana both looked at her strangely, and she smirked with secret knowledge. "We're gonna hook hoses up to them, and if those assholes get through the wall, we're gonna blast them."

That idea occurred to her on the walk over from the security office. She didn't know whether it was practical or not, but she'd try it anyway. "I want the front gate secure. We have some left over sandbags, stack them in front. I want everyone in place at their station in two hours; be quick but be thorough."

She looked over the crowd one final time. "Let's do this."

* * *

At 11:45, all of _Watu's _fighters gathered in the commons, where they milled and shifted restlessly in the shadow of the old, rugged cross. Each wore a pack on his back and carried a rifle; some sported helmets and others bullet proof vests raided from police stations and armories scattered across the wastelands.

All of the vehicles that would transport them to the front were parked in a line on either side of Abe, a wide space between ranks denoting where one division ended and another began. An armored car with a cattle guard on the grill, a roof mounted machine gun, and wide sheets of re enforced metal drilled into the rear like wings for men to shelter behind stood proud and majestic in the middle of one division like a steampunk colossus. Chandler opened the driver side door and grabbed an olive green flak jacket from the front seat. Ginormous took it and carefully helped him into it like a loyal manservant assisting his master in preparing for a dinner party, then stepped back. "Do you have your helmet?" he fretted.

Suppressing an eyeroll, Chandler reached into the truck, grabbed a green helmet, and pulled it on, then laced the strap under his chin. Deep down, he was grateful for his Father's concern. Once upon a time, he had a family that loved him, but they existed beyond the hazy demarcation line his traumatized brain drew at the incident on the road. If he thought hard enough, he could recall their faces, but he didn't want to because they didn't matter anymore. Ginormous was the only person on earth (including himself) who cared whether he lived or died, the only person who loved him and who, he was sure, would _ever _love him. He saw him at his worst, mute and useless, waking hysterical from nightmares and sobbing inconsolably, wetting himself like an overgrown baby, calling for Mommy...and still he loved him.

Chandler was not an emotional man, but standing here on the brink of war, excited and self-assured or not, a lump formed in his throat and his heart skipped a long, staggering beat. He would do anything for Ginormous, climb any mountain, walk any desert, even if he knew it was wrong, even if he knew only death and ruin lie ahead...he would march to and through the very gates of hell behind Ginormous.

"Is that everything?" the black man asked. People were starting to drift to their vehicles now; a man opened the back doors of the armored car then climbed in, followed by a stream of men each getting in like nervous boys onto their first school bus. Chandler grabbed his pack from the ground and rifled through it, checking to make sure everything was present and accounted for.

It was.

"Yeah, that's it," he said and tossed it into the car.

Ginormous came forward and pulled him into a ferocious embrace. Chandler wrapped his arms around him, and for the briefest of moments, he was a kid again, Ginormous cradling him next to a lonely fire under the indifference of the desert moon. A tiny spark of warmth flickered in Chandler's soul, and he hugged his Father tightly - he'd never felt safer or better anywhere else than in Ginormous's arms, and he appreciated that feeling so much it almost brought a tear to his eye.

Slapping his back, Ginormous pulled away and held him at arm's length, his eyes moist with fatherly pride. "Be safe out there," he said.

"I will," Chandler promised. He placed no value on his life, but Ginormous did, and for him he would die...but he would also live.

Turning away with a pinch of loss, Chandler climbed into the driver seat and slammed the door behind him. Rusty sat in the passenger seat with an AK-47 propped between his knees and the handle of a sawed off shotgun sticking from his waistband like a pirate's flintlock. In the back, a dozen men sat on bench seats, rifles across their laps and packs at their feet. They all to a one stared down at the floor, the fear so thick that even Chandler felt it. One crossed himself and another took deep, rapid breaths as if trying to prevent a panic attack. Chandler blinked in surprise and looked dazedly away from the rearview mirror. What did _he _have to worry so much about? He was a glorified NPC in a video game, sleep, eat, work, repeat. He was base, crude, and little more than a bag of flesh going through the motions like a puppet on the end of a string. His life had absolutely no meaning and wasn't worth preserving. Didn't he understand that?

No, Chandler figured, he didn't, they never do. People go through life under the delusion that they are special and unique, but the vast majority are cattle; someone else tells them when to eat, when to shit, when they can sit down. They live on a course determined by men like him and Ginormous, herded here, lead there, smacked and chided when they step out of line. What kind of existence is _that? _He and Ginormous were justified in their actions, because like cattle, people will wander if you let them (physically, morally, even socially), but he could never imagine such a fate for himself; he would rather die than live in a prison of someone else's devising.

Starting the engine, he glanced out the side window just as Ginormous mounted Abe, a furnace blast of wind catching his cape and whipping it like a call to arms. He disappeared inside, and everyone else hurried to their cars; a pick up bed crammed with ten men, a Camaro tightly packed with four, Fang's metal-plated box truck, Needles' Harley with sidecar bearing his second-in-command, a black guy in gogges named Maris, a thousand others, a fleet of the damned setting out on a lost voyage from which they might not return. He picked up the CB handset from the dash and waited for Ginormous's voice to cut through the static; when it did, he replied. "Here."

"_Needles?"_

"Right here, boss."

"_Fang?" _

"Here, sir," Fang returned.

"_Chandler, you first. Needles, wait three minutes then follow. Fang, wait three minutes then follow."_

Chandler acknowledged that he understood, put the handset back into its cradle, and threw the truck into drive, cutting to the right and setting a northeasterly course. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, his hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white, and his spine tingled in sweet anticipation. His, Fang's, and Needles' standing orders were to wait for Ginormous's signal then close in as one. The original plan was for them to hang back while Ginormous brought down the walls, but the big guy changed his mind; said he wanted to shock, awe, and overwhelm them with a simultaneous four way assault. The wall his company was covering was protected by a trench like Ginormous's; Ginormous could get through on his side, but Chandler wasn't sure the armored car could do the same - it sat low to the ground and wasn't meant for uneven terrain the way Abe was. Even if he could bridge the gap somehow, his speed would be reduced so drastically that he wouldn't be able to smash it through the wall. He and his men had to get in somehow, and that _somehow _was stored under the seats, resting in a long black case like a vampire awaiting the fall of night: A sleek Mk 153 shoulder fire rocket launcher like the ones used by U.S. forces in Iraq and Afghanistan. Depending on what shells you used, it could destroy tanks, bunkers, aircraft, small water craft, and fortified structures (such as walls cobbled together from stop signs and sheet metal). With the High-Explosive Anti-Armor rocket, it could even collapse entire buildings. Unfortunately, there weren't any HEAAs laying around when he took it from the National Guard armory in Barstow, so he'd have to settle for garden variety bunker busters. Those should be enough for his purposes - he wanted to knock down one section of wall, not blow the whole town away.

Although, the idea of making Bartertown go up in a fiery mushroom cloud _did _sound appealing. Unlike Ginormous and many of the others, he didn't give two shits about the women or, if he was brutally honest with himself, the nebulous future. If he had his way, he'd rain hellfire on the cunts then storm in and mop up; a bullet in every head, a metal pike in every ass. Ginormous wanted them, however, and wanted a New World - therefore, Chandler would use the Mk only on the wall and take as many of the bitches alive as he could.

He glanced in the rearview mirror; the cars, trucks, and motorcycles of B Company followed behind in a perfect V formation like a fighter squadron streaking across the October sky and kicking up a dense cloud of dust that put Chandler in mind of mustard gas...even though he'd never seen mustard gas. He'd seen tear gas, though. In fact, there were a few canisters under the seat along with a gask mask. As far as he knew, no one else had one, which meant he couldn't use any of the cannisters - wouldn't want to blind his own troops. A choking haze of noxious fumes would also make it hard to tell friend from foe. Not that Chandler particularly cared - as long as Ginormous wasn't in the way, it didn't matter _who _he shot.

Just as long as he shot someone.


	15. Winds of War

**WarDaddy63: Thanks, man, I appreciate that. **

**Guest: Tough, kickass female Linka protecting a bunch of men from an army of Amazons sounds like a good sequel, lol.**

* * *

Lincoln sat with his back against the parapet and one knee drawn to his chest, the opposite leg jutting out in front of him. The Uzi lay next to him, its retractable metal butt fully extended and still too short for his liking. He'd rather something more formidable like an AR-15 or even a shotgun - Uzis were too small, virtually pistols, good at short range but not long.

He picked a canteen up, twisted off the cap, and lifted it to his lips; the water was piss warm and slimey, but he didn't care - he'd been on the wall for close to three hours and the punishing desert sun was starting to get to him. Along the catwalk, women sat in similar positions or knelt and gazed over the edge, keeping watch for Ginormous's army; one, a redhead, scanned the horizon with a pair of binoculars, her head turning slowly from side to side in a tense and endless vigil. Two facing rows of cars wired to detonate remotely were staggered across the desert floor in a zigzag pattern to make mechanized advance difficult. The idea was to get Ginormous's men on foot, which would turn them into sitting ducks, machine gun fodder, and dead bodies. There were also close to a dozen landmines buried on this side, and if Lincoln looked, he could pick out the lumps of disturbed earth marking their location. Hopefully Ginormous's men wouldn't be able to do the same.

Next to him, a brunette named Loretta rubbed her bolt action Springfield with a rag, a sloppily rolled cigarette clamped between her teeth. She was extremely talkative and so far, Lincoln had the distinct pleasure of experiencing her entire life story from birth to high school. _My daddy taught me to shoot and hunt before I could even talk, _she bragged in a Tennessee twang, _I can hit a penny at 500 yards. Those old boys don't stand a _chance. On his other side, a blonde named Lida sat Indian style and played a game of solitaire, the cards arrayed in front of her like stolen goods in the cargo compartment of a dealer's van. Every so often, the wind would pick up and blow one away. _Damn it, _she'd hiss, then go on without it. She was Loretta's polar opposite; she hadn't opened her mouth once except to cuss at her cards flying off, and she hadn't so much as looked at him in all the time they'd been up here. Loretta, on the other hand, kept stealing sidelong glances. _You're kinda of cute, _she said earlier, _why's your hair white? You don't look much older'n me. _

All he could do was shrug. _I dunno, _he said, _it's always been that way. _If he were in a more social mood, he would have told her it was due to a lack of melanin in his hair follicles, but he was too caught up in his own rising anxiety to carry a conversation. Here, on the wall, the inescapable reality of the looming battle was finally starting to sink in, and all he could think about was Lynn; each time his did, his guts twisted and ice formed around around his heart.

He was afraid.

Fear - deep, stomach gnashing fear - was not a feeling he was accustomed to. The last time he knew it was four years ago as he daughter lay dying. Up until then, he hadn't' felt it at all. Waiting for the hounds of war to converge on Bartertown, however, he was so scared he could barely breathe. He did not regret what happened between him and Lynn...didn't regret letting her into his heart...but even so, part of him wished he hadn't. Up until he made love to her...hell, up until he kissed her that first time by the side of the road...the fight wasn't personal. With the children out of harm's way, he had nothing riding on it. Now he did...he had Lynn, and the thought of losing her made him sick. He called up a vision of her face - warm brown eyes, cocky smile, smooth, freckled skin...and love so intense it hurt gripped his chest.

He looked at the walkie talkie next to the Uzi and regarded it with longing eyes - Lynn was just a button push away, and suddenly he needed to hear her voice, to know that she was okay if only for right now. Instead, he forced himself to turn away. In a situation such as this, letting your emotions get the better of you is a good way to make a fatal misstep; he took a deep breath and focused his attention on the palace instead; its second story was visible over the low roofs crowding Bartertown, the windows covered with thick sheets of plywood and snipers lying prone on the roof. Being the highest spot in the village, it made the perfect vantage point for sharpshooters.

Lincoln took another drink, put the lid back on, and sat the canteen aside. Loretta flipped her rifle over and ran the cloth over its length, a stray shaft of sunlight catching and refracting on the scope lens like a James Bond death ray. _I don't expect you to talk, Mr. Bond, I expect you to escape, defeat me, and then have sex with the floozy of the week. Muhahahahaha. _Smoke curled up from from the business end of her cigarette and dispersed on the breeze, most of it wafting into Lincoln's face and stinging his eyes. He winced, waved his hand in front of his face, and almost told her to throw the damn thing out. "I sure can't wait to see the looks on their faces when they see we're gonna fight," she mused. Her voice reminded him of someone, and every time she spoke, it niggled in the back of his mind, getting closer and closer to the fore but never coming into the light, like a word dancing on the tip of your tongue. It was a cartoon character, he finally decided, but that was as far as he could get.

"Yeah," Lincoln croaked and picked up the radio before he could stop himself. He held it in his hand and favored it with a frown, pretending to himself and anyone who might see that he was only studying it to pass the time, the way a man might read the ingrient label of an aerosol can while pooping. He wasn't, though, he was thinking of calling Lynn. She said to keep the line clear _for necessary communications_, but wasn't hearing the voice of the one you love necessary? On a normal day, perhaps not; on a normal day, you manned up and didn't break out in hives because you couldn't talk to your girlfriend exactly when you wanted to.

This wasn't a normal day. In an hour, or two, or less, the one thing he truly cared for - the thing he foolishly allowed himself to care for _at the worst possible time _\- might be taken from him in a hail of gunfire. Earlier, he was convinced that what they shared the night before, the love and tender passion, was worth the risk, but as the shadow of death crept ever closer, he wasn't so sure. He had not known Lynn for very long, but he loved her regardless in the same way he loved his wife - as not just a woman...maybe not even mostly as a woman...but as a person too. He admired her spirit and her determination, her capacity for profound thought, her hidden well of gentle vulnerability, which he saw first hand last night and fell madly in love with. Cupid's arrow strikes when it strikes, sometimes after months or years, and sometimes at first sight; it struck him yesterday afternoon and that was that. If he knew it was coming, he would have stepped aside...or maybe he wouldn't have. He willingly went to bed with her, and that was what sealed the bond. Before that, he wasn't locked in to her...now he was.

He tossed his head back in a gesture of surrender and stared up at the pastel sky, the heat of the sun bathing his already burned face. He hoped those bastards hurried so they could get this over with. On another level, however, he hoped they took a wrong turn at Albuquerque and never showed.

Someone dropped down on his right, and his heart skipped when he turned to find Lynn; she bowed her head, brushed her ponytail from the nape of her neck, and rubbed her red flesh with a sigh. "I wish I packed sunscreen," she said with the casual air of a woman on a beach, not a soldier on the front. The urge to sweep her into his arms and never, ever let her go came over him, but he restrained it, scooting closer and slipping his arm solicitously around her waist instead. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Hi," she said.

"Hey," he said through a growing smile, "what are _you _doing over here?" He tried to inject the question with faux sternness, but came off sounding pleasantly surprised.

Lynn shrugged and laid her MP5 aside, then sat her hand on his thigh, dangerously close to his center. "Official business," she said but did not elaborate.

"What?" he pressed.

"Seeing you."

Lincoln chuckled and kissed the side of her head, the impossibly sweet scent of her hair closing around him like a light spring breeze. "I'm glad you did," he said honestly. "I was just about to break down and call you on the radio."

"You too?" she asked and glanced up at him, the pained sincerity in her eyes telling him that she was suffering the same thoughts and emotions as him. She was probably kicking herself in the ass for falling in love with him...but loving him with every fiber of her being anyway. He imagined her on her section of wall, twitching with nervous energy and stealing quick, shamefaced glances at the radio, wanting to hear his voice and hating the weak feeling in the center of her stomach, like warm Jello in a pan.

He found her hand and threaded their fingers together. "Yeah. I really wanted to talk to you."

She ran her free hand up and down his leg, and he had to concentrate really hard to keep from _getting _really hard, a callow boy experiencing a woman's touch for the first time and bucking against the sensory overload. "Yeah, I wanted to talk to you too." She patted his leg. "Then I said _why not go see him instead?_" Her voice hilted proudly, as a woman who'd solved an impossible equation and was _really _satisfied with herself.

"You mean _why not leave my post?_" Lincoln teased.

"Eh," she dismissed and squeezed his hand, "semantics."

A gust of wind kicked up, and one of Lida's cards flew away. "Damn it," she hissed, "that was my last jack." She sighed and hanged her head in defeat. On Lincoln's other side, Loretta snickered and went on cleaning her gun even though it was already spotless.

Lincoln laid his cheek against the top of Lynn's head and breathed through his nose, drawing in her smell and letting it work on his mind like wine. "Yeah," he agreed, "semantics. How're things over there?"

"Boring," Lynn said. "Here?"

"Dull."

Loretta rolled her eyes. "I been tryna talk to you, but you so quiet. Wouldn't say shit if you had a mouthful."

"He's the strong, silent type," Lynn said with a glint in her eye. "Just how I like them."

The southern woman hummed. "I wanna get to know _my _man," she said, "can't do that unless he says somethin'. I knew a boy in school never talked _at all_. Finally, one day he did and he sounded like the Jolly Green Giant." She giggled in not unpleasing way and shook her head at the memory. "We called him Paul Bunyan after that. This one time, he…"

Lincoln tuned her out and turned to Lynn, who stared up at him with an uncertain expression that hurt his heart. "You alright?" he asked, already knowing that she wasn't.

She looked down at her lap and sighed. "I'm kinda...kinda scared," she said haltingly. She rubbed a lazy circle in his leg.

"I'm not," he lied, not wanting to worry her anymore than she already was, "we got this."

"You think so?" she asked doubtfully.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, being careful not to hurt her wound. "I do. They'll never even make it to the walls. We got .50 cals, flamethrowers, and pipe bombs, not to mention the cars and the mines. We're good."

While he believed the odds were in their favor, he didn't believe that Bartertown was particularly _good_. The raiders might not penetrate the defenses, but people would die. He went back to the man holding the bazooka during Ginormous's last visit (had it really only been two days?), and a chunk of ice slucied down his spine. The walls were strong, but not strong enough to stand up to high powered explosives; one hit, maybe two, and they would come down, leaving Bartertown open and largely undefended.

For the millionth time that day, he thought of taking Lynn and going, let Bartertown fend for itself. It had promise, but not enough that he was willing to let Lynn die for it. The only thing holding him back was her commitment. She wouldn't leave no matter how much he begged, and if he knocked her out, threw her into the back of a car, and drove off, she would hate him. That would almost be worth saving her, though…

...almost. He was strong in body and in spirit, but his heart was weak. He couldn't stand the thought of Lynn resenting him, and she would, deeply, for denying her the freedom of her own choice. Bartertown meant everything to her, and in an abstract way, he knew that his love for her could not supplant it, but only enhance it. He and Bartertown were kind of a package deal to Lynn - a stable, peaceful place to make her life and a man to make it _with_. If he was completely honest...that idea appealed to him too. He didn't want to drift with her through the wastelands, always on the move with nothing to their names but their love...that may have attracted him ten years ago, but finding a place to call his own, an actual home again...yes, he wanted that. Maybe he wouldn't have if not for Lynn, he didn't know, but he had her and he could see them being happy here, just like he and his wife were in the old days. And maybe someday they could start a family.

Right now, all of that was castles in the sky, idle fantasy that would soon be rudely interrupted by war.

"I wasn't all that worried before," she said, the words coming hard, "kind of, but now…" she trailed off and Lincoln held her tighter. Taking a deep breath, she brushed her thumb over his knuckles. "I have a lot more to lose."

Lincoln stroked the heel of her palm with his middle finger. "Me too," he said. "I was worried about the kids but once they were gone, I really didn't care either way. I _did, _but I wasn't afraid for myself."

"I'm not afraid for me," Lynn mused.

"_I _am."

"And I'm afraid for _you_," she said.

Lincoln didn't realize that he let his true emotions escape until it was too late - he wanted to reassure her, but instead he practically told her he had reason to be scared.

"We'll get through it," he vowed. He brought the back of her hand to his lips and kissed each one of her knuckles. "Then afterwards…" he let the thought hang unfinished and pregnant with possibility.

Lynn smiled and drew a deep, contented breath through her nose. "Yeah," she said dreamily, "afterwards." She stared off into the distance with a hazy, faraway look in her eyes, perhaps imagining their future together: White picket fence, big front yard, a little boy that looked like him and a little girl resembling her sitting in a grass and happily rolling a ball back and forth. That's what he saw, at least, despite Bartertown's distinct lack of grass and picket fences.

The vision was both hauntingly beautiful and profoundly unsettling because it included children, the one thing that he firmly swore to never have again, and his heart swelled with love for them even as cold slush flooded his stomach. He never thought he'd want kids again, but now that he could see their faces...the smiles on their lips and the glow in their eyes, so much like Lynn's...he did.

And that was terrifying; the pain of losing his daughter was the worst he had ever known, and he didn't think he could handle it again. No, actually, he _knew _he couldn't. Even if he felt it for only a second before jamming a gun into his mouth, it would be too much.

Lynn spoke, mercifully bringing him out of his thoughts. "Kinda disappointed in Lola." She gazed at the palace with a terse, tight-lipped expression. "I expected her to at least show her face."

He didn't. She made very clear that she wanted no part of the battle or, for that matter, leading Bartertown. Lynn was effectively in charge and had been since last night, and in Lincoln's opinion, Bartertown was far better off for it. He didn't think he had it in him to hate Lola now that he wasn't chained up at her feet drinking from a fucking bowl, but she wasn't leader material. Lynn didn't think _she _was either, but she was, and he really hoped everyone else saw that as clearly as he did. If this place was still standing come sundown, it needed to affirm her as its head of state, even if that meant armed rebellion.

Not that it would, unless Lola changed her mind. Maybe with the threat of Ginormous out of the way, she'd sing a different tune. They'd just have to wait and see.

"Why?" Lincoln asked and slipped his hand around the back of her neck, thumb brushing slick and gritty skin, "she's not in command, you are."

Lynn leaned back into his touch, her soft hair skimming his knuckles. "Everyone looks to her like she is," she explained, "and she really should have come out and made a speech or something." Lincoln kneaded her muscles and she tilted her head even farther back like a cat being scratched in its favorite spot.

"How's your shoulder?" he asked.

"Not bad," she said, "aches a little."

She refused to take a painkiller lest it dull her senses and slow her reaction time, and while she might say she felt alright, he knew different. Her movements were stiff, sore, and the veins in her neck strained when she held her gun. How she was planning to fire it, he didn't know; the recoil would play hell on her arm.

Yet another thing to worry about.

From there, they lapsed into companionable silence, both enjoying the other's presence and grappling with their own fears. Lincoln reached for the canteen, but froze when the redhead with the binoculars called out, her voice rising with alarm. "Here they come!"

Lynn tensed, Lincoln's heart stopped, and everyone along the parapet perked up, turning hurriedly around and taking up position, an excited murmur running up and down the line. For a moment, the world came to a complete stop as the realization that the hour of death was upon them sank into Lincoln's brain, then slammed back into motion when Lynn whipped her head around. Her face was ashen and drawn, eyes fearful and wide. Her grip tightened reflexively, and she her lips pressed together in a bloodless line. "Here we go," she said.

Lincoln thought he was ready...but he wasn't.

She pulled away, grabbed the MP5, and wound the strap around her bad arm...probably in anticipation of needing extra support. They looked each other, and a spasm of dread wracked Lincoln's stomach.

He didn't want to lose her.

Couldn't lose her.

Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her deeply, desperately, as if by doing so he could somehow save her from harm. She hooked her arm around his neck and kissed back just as hard. "I love you," he declared. His voice trembled with emotion and stinging tears welled at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't care, for right now, nothing mattered but her.

"I love you too," she replied and ran her fingers gently along the side of his face, as if committing every detail to memory in case she never saw him again. Her muddied browns glistened with tears of their own and her throat worked furiously. "Be safe," she said, abject pleading in her voice.

"I will," he said and forced a wan smile that felt out of place on his lips, "keep your pretty head low, huh?"

The corners of her mouth twitched like the legs of a dying bug and she caressed his face once more. "I can't make any promises," she said, her brow furrowing slightly. _I'm going to do what it takes _her expression told him, _even if it means dying. _

"Just try," he said selfishly.

She tried to smile again, failed, then turned and hurried down the catwalk at a crouch, her ponytail swinging from side to side like a departing wave. Lincoln watched her until she was gone, then, with a sharp twinge of loss, he sighed, got to his knees, and picked the Uzi up. The sole .50 on this side sat off to his left, next to the redhead. He switched spots with Lida and knelt behind it. In the distance, a fleet of vehicles approached, the sun glinting off chrome gills. They moved at a crawl, a schizophrenic mishmash of hotrods, Jeeps, pick-up trucks, a station wagon, and other strung out on either side of something that Lincoln couldn't make out from here.

"Let me see," he said and held out his hand. The redhead handed him the binoculars and he raised them to his eyes, the scene swimming into focus. When he saw what that _something _was, his blood ran cold: A flat brown M1A2 Abrams tank, its turret pointing directly at him like a wrathful finger. A man in sunglasses and a helmet sat behind a giant .50 cal on its raised command station and another knelt beside him, an M4 in his hands. The tank's tracks crept over the rocky soil with a low rumble that found Lincoln's ears and sent electric tingles down his spine. A dozen infantrymen, maybe more, followed close behind on foot, protected by its titanic bulk.

"Oh, my God," the redhead muttered in drawing horror and Loretta paled, the barrel of her Springfield seeming to deflate impotently. Shocked gasps. worried murmurs, and stammering exclamations swept the picket, and a few of the women looked strickenly around as if for some means of escape or salvation. They were expecting a fight, but not _this_. One push of a button, and they'd all be reduced to charred splinters. Lincoln's mind raced; the mines he and Lynn buried might take care of ground troops and souped up V8s, but they'd barely put a dent in the reinforced steel plating of an Abrams. He glanced at the rudimentary control panel next to the machine gun, an unfinished wooden box with a series of metal switches numbered 1 through 8. Each corresponded to one of the cars; flicking them would send the matching vehicle up in a ball of flames. Like the mines, they were great for soldiers and lightly armored sedans, but most likely wouldn't discourage the tank.

That's if it _didn't _blow them all to Kingdom Come before he had a chance to flip them.

Shit. He looked off to the left, toward Lynn's position, and cars closed in from that direction as well, a Brinks armored car with a cattle guard and a roof mounted machine gun in the center. At right, still another division moved in, approaching the main gates like a slow, inexorable flood of lava. He twisted around, and the final legion advanced from the north, a Harley-Davidson with a sidecar at the head of the pack. The noose was tightening, and a dark weight pressed suddenly down on Lincoln's chest's like a massive iron hand, pushing the air from his lungs. There were no high walls around him, but there might as well have been...and they were closing fast.

His heart splashed into his stomach and he looked out over the desert again. The column drew closer like the march of time, each of the cars keeping pace with the tank. His eyes went to the turret's yawning maw and he gulped. The women watched restlessly, coiled and ready to jump from the catwalk at the first sign of trouble. Lincoln became aware of his jaw hanging open, and snapped it closed. Dropping the Uzi between his knees, he grabbed the .50's handle and nestled its butt to his shoulder, then pivoted it around so that the barrel was aimed directly at the tank. "Hold steady," he ordered, his voice shaken. What should he do? Give the wall up for dead? Have the women fall back and regroup, then fight Ginormous's men on the ground? He didn't like the thought of letting those bastards through the wall - there were so many of them that they could overwhelm him and the others with numbers alone. Staying, on the other hand, was virtually suicide.

He grasped for an answer like a man chasing fireflies, but none came to him. There were two options...and he liked neither one.

They were fifty feet from the first bomb rigged car and 350 yards from the wall when the tank came to a grinding halt, a shroud of dust rolling over it like smoke through the gates of hell. The other vehicles stopped slightly behind in a choreographed V. Lincoln licked his lips and looked from side to side; the women were all aiming, but they were afraid, guns shaking, faces white, one chewing her bottom lip like it was prime rib. Loretta stared down the sights of her Springfield and Lida fought to keep her AK-47 steady, her eyes raging with dark terror.

Men got out of the cars and knelt behind open doors, rear ends, and along the tank's hull. Lincoln tracked their movements with the .50 cal, locked in indecision. He glanced up and down the line again, his lips pursing thoughtfully. It'd be better to have the women retreat to one of the fall back positions and engage Ginormous's men as they came through the wall; he didn't like it, but he didn't have much of a choice. Rocking back on his knees, he whipped his head from side to side. "Alright, everyone, fall back, fall back." The women all spared him worried glances, then, one by one they pushed away from the parapet and hurried down the ladders without protest.

Except for Loretta. "I ain't goin' nowhere," she said, staring down the sights of her rifle, one eye squinted.

"That's an order," Lincoln said.

She blew a dismissive raspberry. "You ain't nobody."

He started to tell her if she didn't leave herself he'd pick her up and throw her off, but stopped when the tank's hatch flung open and slammed against the metal plating with a hollow sound. Like an evil spirit rising from a shallow grave, Ginormous appeared, head and shoulders, dust coated mask covering his face and a black cape fluttering behind him. Lincoln couldn't see his smug smile, but he could feel it like waves of cemetery stench wafting from an open tomb. "Now hush up," Loretta said, as though Lincoln were still speaking, "there he is." She braced her elbows against the parapet and aimed.

The other brigades halted 350 yards from the wall like the first. On Lynn's side, men spilled from the back of the armored car and pressed themselves flat against its flank, the closer ones kneeling and the farther ones crouching by its back corner, automatic rifles pointed up at the walls.

They were completely surrounded, and Lincoln had to consciously regulate his breathing to keep from hyperventilating. Behind him, the women sheltered behind sandbag heaps, cars, and dugouts protected by breastworks of interlocked timbers.

Beside him, the radio crackled to life, and he jumped. "_Everyone there?" _Lynn asked.

Lauren and Lana, the other two commanders, both replied. Lincoln let go of the machine gun and reluctantly took his eyes off of the tank long enough to snatch the walkie talkie and bring it to his lips. It trembled slightly in his hand and he wrestled control of himself from the jaws of panic. "Here," he said, "got a major problem."

"_What?"_ Apprehension seasoned her voice.

"You don't see this?" he asked. "He has a fucking tank."

She didn't immediately respond. "_Shit. What did you do?" _

"I ordered a fall back," he said, "we're gonna have to let the wall go and take them on the ground."

A suspenseful moment passed, the only sound the soft hiss of white noise, then Lynn came back, her voice a defeated sigh. "_Alright. DId _you _fall back?"_

Lincoln didn't know how to reply to that. Tell her the truth - that he planned to stay until the wall came down and hope for the best - or lie and say that he was safe behind a pile of wood. He didn't want her to worry about him, but he also didn't want to lie to her. "I did," he blurted, his heart choosing for him.

"_Okay. Be safe. I love you."_

"I love you too."

She asked Lana how things were on her side, and Lincoln sat the radio aside and picked up the machine gun again. Across the desert, Ginormous picked up a CB handset and scanned the defenses, then shook his head as if at a wayward child. He held the transmitter up, and his voice, loud as God, rolled over the hardpan. "Have you _really _decided on this needlessly self-destructive course? Have you _really?_" He paused for dramatic effect, and though he was too far away to be sure, Lincoln felt like the black man was looking directly at _him, _seeing into his soul and leaving cold slime in his wake like a poisonous slug. "Have you really let your leader - so selfish she will not even allow you your own names - to put you and your loved ones in danger over her fanatical need for control?"

Loretta lined up her shot and slipped her finger around the trigger. Lincoln watched from the corner of his eye, hoping to God she was as good a shot as she claimed and hit the bastard in the head.

"You've sold your souls to a miserable shrew and have aligned yourself against progress. I implore you -"

Loretta's rifle spoke with a sharp whip-crack; the CB flew from Ginormous's grasp in pieces and he yanked his hand back like a man from a hot stove.

A split second later, all hell broke loose. The machine gunner opened fire, tracer rounds streaking across the desert and pinging against the wall, and everyone on the ground followed suit, the din of a thousand guns consuming the world. Heart in throat, Lincoln jerked the .50 cal's trigger and raked fire along the army. A man kneeling behind the passenger door of a Camero, his M-16 braced on the frame, dropped in a spray of blood and the headlights exploded. Another man scrambled behind a pick up truck and went to his knees. He lifted a rifle but fell back onto his ass before he could fire. Lincoln swiveled the .50 mindlessly back and forth, raining down a dense curtain of suppressing fire. Bullets struck the tank, cars, the ground, kicking up puffs of dust, shredding tires, destroying windshields. He lucked out and hit the gas tank of a Dodge Charger; it went up in a ball of flames and several men stumbled away, their bodies engulfed. One sank to his knees, then pitched forward, face first into the dirt, and another fell and rolled hysterically back and forth. The man behind the .50 cal swung the gun toward Lincoln, and his heart stopped. Loretta squeezed off a shot, and he slumped over the mount, bullets whizzing harmlessly into the sky.

Shots rang out on all sides as the defenders and the invaders traded fire.

Ginormous disappeared into the tank and pulled the hatch closed behind him. Lincoln's stomach twisted and he aimed at the turret, hoping irrationally to disable it somehow. Beside him, Loretta aimed, but dropped the gun when a round took her high in the head, a shower of blood, brain, and skull fragments blowing out behind her. For a second, she teetered, then fell back, tumbling off the catwalk and landing on the ground with a thump of dead weight. The shooter, as close as Lincoln could tell, ducked behind a Chevy pick up. Lincoln aimed, but the gun clicked useless in his hands. He cursed through his teeth and pushed it away. He started to reach for the Uzi, but a loud, hollow _whump _stopped him. He looked up just in time to see fire leaping from the tank's cannon, then the world went out from under him with an awful sound and he fell to earth in a vortex of twisted metal and broken plating. When he hit the ground, hot pain flared up his leg and he screamed...then darkness stole over him.


	16. Symphony of Destruction

Chandler climbed between the seats, twisted around, and reached under the seat, his fingers questing for then finally finding the handle of the case bearing the rocket launcher. He pulled it out, hefted it up, then hurried to the rear double doors. Bullets pelted the car's armor and windshield like hail, but the latter held up. He'd have to send a thank you note to the boys at Brink's when this was over.

He jumped out, his boots crushing a tuft of scrub, and laid the case on the ground. Clusters of men bent and crouched at either one of the car's back corners, taking potshots at the wall and missing. When the shooting started, the defenders opened up with small arms fire and at least two .50 cals, laying down a dense barrage that left his troops pinned. The cars behind the Brinks bore wounded witness to Bartertown's onslaught: Bullet holes, shattered windshield, blown out tires, and white steam curling from under hoods. Soldiers sheltered against bumpers and waited for the firing to stop - during each lul, presumably marking a reload, they popped out and returned fire. As Chandler unsnapped the case, one ducked from cover, then toppled limply to one side when a round took off the right side of his face. Blood oozed from his ruined cranium and soaked into the soil; his legs twitched as his damaged brain sent garbled and frantic signals to his dying nervous system, and Chandler grinned to himself, amused. The rattle of Bartertown's guns combined with _Watu's_ response was deafening and he could hardly hear his own thoughts, but it was the sweetest music, and was giddy like a boy on Christmas morning.

Next to him, Rusty sat against the bumper, his G36E clutched to his chest. Bullets bit into the ground feet away and kicked up little clouds of dust, and more hit cars, trucks, and the Brinks with metallic pings. Chandler opened the lid, took out the rocket launcher, a sleek device painted olive green with instructions printed on the side in yellow, and sat it on the ground. He removed a single Nerf football shaped rocket, and jammed it into the front of the launcher.

In the distance, something exploded, and a slight tremor raced through the ground. The fire from Bartertown stopped, and his men capitalized on the break; the ones crouching darted to the front end, and others scrambled out from cover and advanced, some throwing themselves onto the ground and others taking up position at the corners in place of the first group. Chandler got cooly to his feet, picked the rocket launcher up, and sat it on his shoulder. Bending at the waist, he moved alongside the Brinks' and dropped to one knee when he reached the passenger door. The firing had resumed and bullets cut through the air. Thick black smoke rose over the wall, and Abe crept toward the beligured town, men following tall and unopposed on either flank. That told Chandler that the defenders on that side were disabled. His smile widened, revealing his crooked yellow teeth, and he hummed airily; this was going to be far easier than he thought.

He slunk to the front end, head ducked, and waited for a minute, listening to the crescendo of war; explosions sounded in the west, closely followed by screams. He glanced at the tank just as one of the men beside it went up in a puff of smoke and dirt; he flew forward, legs severed at the knees, and landed hard in front of Abe's tracks. The tank did not stop, did not slow; Chandler did not hear the crunch of the man's bones as he was rolled over, but he laughed merrily anyway. The troops hesitated, then broke and ran to the rear when another man exploded. Looked like landmines. Were they home brew or military grade? Standard US Army landmines were only so powerful, but bathtub versions were as strong as the builder wanted them to be. From the looks of it, he'd say they were routine gigs. Either or would be enough to render the armored car useless if he ran one over. Rusty knelt by the front fender, head low, then popped up, aimed his rifle over the hood, and fired. From this distance, Chandler couldn't tell if his rounds caught anyone.

"Move," he said, and Rusty spared him a quick glance. They changed spots, and Chandler aimed the Mk at the wall, its weight warm and comforting on his shoulder. At this distance, he could just make out heads and muzzle flashes along the parapet. The .50 was silent, being reloaded, but rifle fire scented the air, and he had to duck to avoid flying bullets. He realized his heart was pounding in excitement, a quick, steady _du-DUH, du-DUH, du-DUH, _and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

The shooting slackened, and Chandler straightened his back. He took a moment to relish the moment, like a man savoring the taste of a rare, million dollar delicacy, then steeled himself and pulled the trigger. The rocket streaked from the barrel with a unsettling high-pitched shriek of rage and a scalding backdraft of fire and smoke shot out of the rear vent. The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder and ozone singed Chandler's nostrils and stung his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened, then the shell slammed into the wall and burst like a red, blossoming flower, the loud, concussive _boom _drowning out everything else. The wall buckled inward, and several of the defenders spilled over the top, landing in or near the trench. One, Chandler noted, was skewered on the pikes meant for him. LOL. When the smoke cleared, a jagged crater, starting at the base and extending almost to the top, greeted him like a big, toothless smile. Six feet by nine, it was just wide enough that three men could enter abreast.

None of the defenders fired, and taking them for dead, fled, or mortally wounded, Chander stood to his full height, turned, and went to the rear, passing Rusty and several others. "Move out," he called. He stuck the rocket launcher back into its case, picked it up, and crossed to the driver side door. Men climbed into the hold while others took up position on either side. He pushed the case under the seat, grabbed the wheel, and pulled himself in. Rusty opened the door and Chandler glanced at him. "Cover," he said. Nodding, Rusty slammed the door again and crouched slightly forward. To the left, Abe disappeared from sight, and on the right, Fang's men traded fire with the Bartertown bitches protecting the south wall. He leaned over, unhooked the CB from its rig, and pressed the button "Fang, Needles, report."

Crackling static filled the line, then Fang came back. "_We're pinned down. Can't go forward or back." _

A moment later, Needles reponsed. "_Same here. We tried advancing on the gate and one of these fucking cars out here exploded. Took out six of my guys. There are landmines too. I drove one over with the truck and it blew the front tire off." _

Shit. He stared at the open desert between here and the wall. Roughly 400 yards separated him from Bartertown, not a great distance, but forever when every tiny movement could trigger an explosion. Needles said he hit one and it blew a tire off the box truck. All things considered, that wasn't much damage at all. If he hit one, some of the men following beside would be killed or maimed, but he'd be okay. The Brinks, on the other hand, wouldn't be.

Eh, fuck it. He held down the TALK button with his thumb, "Hold your position. I'm advancing. With me and Ginormous in, it'll draw them off the walls."

Fang and Needles both acknowledged, and Chandler set the radio back in its cradle. He started the engine and looked at the wall; he saw no one on it or through the hole, but he sensed they were there the way a fox senses the presence of timid rabbits. He sniffed deeply, imagining he could smell then, then threw the car into drive; it jerked forward and the wheels crunched gravel. Rusty walked along the right flank and another man along the left, the butt of his AR-15 wedged in the crook of his shoulder. A car sat lengthwise in Chandler's path, fifty feet and closing, and remembering what Needles said, he spun the wheel to the left, navigating the Brinks' away like a sea captain guiding his ship from the crosshairs of an oncoming iceberg. Still no one appeared on the wall. In the west, a massive explosion shook the world, and dust mushroomed into the sky. Small arms fire followed, its location difficult to ascertain. If he had to guess, he'd say that some of the defenders left this side of the wall to join the fight against Abe, who had surely breached the west wall already.

Behind him, the men started spreading out, emboldened by the lack of resistance. One stepped on a mine, and was hurled into the air in a shower of dirt and rocks. Rusty tensed but kept going, his one eye sweeping the ground for signs of disturbance.

They were a hundred feet from the wall now; smoke poured into the sky, and through the crater, Chandler caught flashes of people running back and forth in their panic. Good.

He was so caught up in enjoying the show that he didn't see the woman on the wall until something landed hard on the hood, then rolled off.. He started and whipped his gaze to her; freckles, brown hair, ponytail - _BOOM! _

The earth beneath the car heaved and the front end leapt, the tires leaving the ground. Chandler's heart rocketed into his throat, and he cried out in alarm when the engine exploded in a ball of flames. The front tires came back down with a jolt, and he was thrown forward, his forehead cracking against the wheel; blinding white pain swelled in the center of his skull, and he bore down so hard on his teeth his jaw ached. In the back, men moaned and lay on the floor. Long stalks of fire rose from the engine block, and choking black smoke started to enter the cab, along with intense heat.

Coming alive, Chandler threw the door open and scrambled out, stumbling and falling to his knees. Men knelt and fired at the wall, and panting, Chandler threw a glance over his shoulder; the Brinks' front end was a flaming mess of twisted metal and ruination. The driver side tire was bent and warped and motor oil spread out from underneath like the spilled blood of a fallen martyr. The man who'd been walking beside him lay in a bed of scrub, his face charred and pock marked with shrapnel.

Chandler looked up toward the parapet, but the woman was gone.

Getting to his feet, he grabbed the Tec-9 dangling from around his shoulder and slipped his finger into the trigger guard. He looked over his shoulder and the men, a dozen and a half in all; the rest were scattered between here and the cars, reminding Chandler of black and white photos he'd seen of Civil War battlefields after the musket balls stopped flying. "Come on," he called and started toward the wall. Rusty lay face down in the dirt, his back rapidly rising and falling. His left leg was laid open to the knee, shards of bone poking through tattered flesh, ripped fabric, and oozing grue. Chandler spared him a distasteful look, then marched toward the wall...and Bartertown beyond.

* * *

Sir. Ginormous was a conductor, and this was his symphony.

Sitting alone behind Abe's complex control panel, his mask raised to reveal his fire ravaged face and one eye pressed to a telescope, he felt no emotion. No fear, no trepidation, nothing but a cold, repitalian _void. _He was focused entirely on the mission at hand, as cool and practical as a machine. Unlike weaker and less prepossessed men, he was able to switch off his feelings when necessary. That was a dangerous proposition, as a callous man is apt to act more rashly, but there are some evils, he had learned, that one must simply accept, and this was one of them.

To be sure, he kept a tight grip on himself lest he do something he would regret, like laying total waste to Bartertown and slaughtering the women like an invading barbarian. Once upon a time, in a world far, far away from the one he inhabited now - so far, in fact, that he could scarcely remember it - he believed in striking a balance. Everything from society itself to individual interpersonal relationships, required compromise and meeting in the middle, as it were. A part of him still did, and right now, as he operated Abe's levers and gears, he was perfectly and efficiently poised between sacking Mongol and diplomatic statesman. He would kill and pillage only as far as he was forced, but not a fraction further.

Through the periscope, Bartertown drew closer like a ship adrift. Smoke billowed into the sky and the sounds of destruction raged around him, muffled but still audible. The western wall, slapped together from various pieces of scrap metal, was now a smoldering heap of twisted wreckage, and one of the buildings beyond burned unchecked. Chest high fortifications made of timbers and sandbags dotted the open space around it, women firing over the top. Rounds struck Abe's armor and bounced off with tinks and tonks, and as he observed, one of the defenders took a bust of gunfire to the chest and toppled back. A twinge of regret pinched Ginormous's inert heart and his jaw unconsciously clenched.

As precious gasoline sustains the chariots of conquest, hope sustains the human spirit, and up to the moment the first shot was fired, Ginormous clung to the admittedly fragile hope that the women of Bartertown would see the error of their ways and lay down their arms. He overestimated their intelligence, however, and saw with his own eyes the attempted suicide of a people. He knew from hard-won experience that human beings are fundamentally stupid, but like an optimistic fool, he allowed himself the audacity of hope time and again, only to be disappointed.

He would have to make his point, and make it well, that way the women protecting Bartertown never let him down again.

A woman broke from behind the blazing structure and darted toward one of the fieldworks; machine gun fire rattled to his right, and she sprawled in the dirt. Ginormous ground his teeth together and glanced at the red firing button; he was becoming very annoyed, the the urge to reduce the insolent wretches and their nest-of-vipers settlement to cinders gripped him. How easy it would be to crush them beneath his treads!

With a startling suddenness, rage swept through him like a prairie fire. Didn't these morons understand that he was trying to save them? Didn't they realize that he, in all his wisdom, was simply bringing them into the light? They were so steadfast in their old fashioned mindset, the same one that brought the world to its knees six years ago, that they would rather destroy everything he had worked so hard to build instead of make the sacrifices he required of them. The road ahead would not be an easy one, he never claimed that, and to traverse it, one needed calm, alacrity, and a willingness to compromise.

The women of Bartertown proved time and time again that they lacked all of those traits. They were stubborn, headstrong, self-serving, and still high on the lingering vestiges of third wave feminism. They still believed that their gender entitled them to independence and special consideration, they thought, even with everything that had happened over the past six years, that they didn't need men, that they could move mountains on their own because _I am woman, hear me roar_.

They were sadly mistaken, for today, there _was _no room for independence. Independence is death. Community, discipline, and self-sacrifice for the greater good was the only way to claw back from the grave.

And the women of Bartertown _refused_.

He was seething now, his shoulders rising and falling with his ragged exhalations. His eyes went once more to the button, and sneering, he balled his fist and brought it down.

_WHUMP._

A shudder went through Abe's frame, and in the periscope's viewfinder, the building, now completely engulfed, exploded.

They would see.

They would see _well. _

And they would follow him to the Promised Land.

Even if it killed them.


	17. Last Stand

Lynn Loud had never felt smaller or weaker in her life than she did kneeling behind the .50 cal on the east wall, two dozen trucks, sedans, and motorcycles facing her. Her eyes darted to the armored car in the center rank as men spilled out of the rear and couched beside the back bumper. Other men ducked behind Mustangs, Monte Carlos, Dodge Rams, and Jeeps, all of them aiming up at the parapet with a metallic lock and load clack that Lynn didn't know was real or just a figment of her overwrought imagination. The women on either side of her all laid the forestocks of their rifles on the parapet and took aim, moving, each one, with the gim and resigned silence of the soon-dead. Lynn swept the line with the gun and trained it on the armored car, her finger stroking the trigger. Her heartbeat quickened and her stomach knotted sickly.

There was going to be a fight, and someone had to start it...might as well be her. Her brain sent the command to her finger, but it didn't move. An icy lump formed in her throat and she swallowed around it. When she squeezed off that first shot, the whole world would erupt in violence; she would be in danger, Bartertown would be in danger, and most importantly, Lincoln would be in danger. A curtain of bullets would tear through the afternoon, explosions would shake the earth, and a tank...a fucking tank…

She choked. She knew this was going to happen whether she wanted it to or not, but she couldn't bring herself to precipitate it; she might as well have a gun to not only her own head, but to the heads of everyone and everything she cared about.

Ginormous's voice boomed from the west like the opening cannonade of a world war. "Have you _really _decided on this needlessly self-destructive course? Have you _really?_" Lynn twisted her head around and looked for the source, finding in an instant: A massive tank painted desert brown with a .50 machine gun on its top deck and men kneeling next to its hull, their rifles pointed up at the wall. She searched for Lincoln on the ground but there were too many buildings in the way, and her stomach dropped. Part of her longed to abandon her post and meet up with him, to die at his side if it came down to that, but she stayed where she was, her body so tense it quivered. She gripped the machine gun's handle and stared down the sights, aiming at the truck and licking her dry lips. Would the cars and the mines be enough to stop the tank? Maybe, but it would have to run them over - if it hung back and battered the town with shells, there was nothing they could do except try to reach it on foot, which probably wouldn't be feasible.

The faint hope that Lincoln's words stirred in her chest drained away, leaving her cold and empty. They were fucked. 100 percent fucked. Her lungs constricted and an iron band of panic looped around her chest. What Lincoln said came back to her and she latched onto it like a woman to a life preserver. _We'll get through this...then afterwards…_

She had to hold onto that, to the promise of the future in whatever form it took, because if she didn't, she would go to pieces and there would _be _no future, for her or anyone else.

"Have you really let your leader - so selfish she will not even allow you your own names - to put you and your loved ones in danger over her fanatical need for control?"

Lynn stroked the trigger and took a deep, shuddery breath. Why wasn't anyone shooting? What were they waiting for? Her? Did she really have to be the one to start it? She swallowed thickly and trained the gun on the armored car, shooting a questioning glance at the catwalk beneath her. A stack of four pipe bombs stood by like dutiful house staff. She couldn't reach from here if she tried, but once the vanguard got a little closer, she'd -

A gunshot rang out, and before she even knew what was happening, the men on the ground opened fire. Heart in throat, she reflexively jerked the trigger, and the .50 cal jumped in her hands: Rounds ricocheted off the front of the armored car and struck the ground. Everyone else on the parapet joined in, and men dove behind cover to escape the maelstrom. Lynn raked the machine gun back and forth, spraying everything in front of her more to pin the invaders down than to kill them. Tires popped, windshield exploded, and bullets sparked off metal with tinks that crazily reminded her of rain on a tin roof. A woman on her right fell back and hung half off the catwalk, blood leaking from a hole in her head, and down the line, another toppled to one side with a cry of pain. Screams, gun powder, breaking glass, and horrified exclamations clogged the air, making Lynn dizzy. On the ground, a man darted from behind a Camero and ran toward the armored car, and Lynn followed him with the gun, bullets striking the hardpan around his feet and sending up little clouds of dust. One tore into his ankle and he sprawled forward, hitting the ground like a baseball player sliding home...face-first instead of feet-first.

A bullet zipped by on her left, so close she could feel its heat, and she bent over the .50 cal to make a smaller target of herself.

Without warning, a thunderous explosion rose behind her, and she jumped in surprise. A terrible metallic grinding followed, then an apocalyptic clang and clatter. She whipped her head around just in time to see the west wall collapse in a heap of broken metal; smoke poured from the tank's turret and more billowed up from the ruined wall. A bullet stuck the parapet next to her, bringing her back to reality, and she returned her attention to the battle. On her left, a woman stopped to expel a spent magazine from her STG-E4; she jammed a fresh one in, aimed, and her head burst like an overripe melon, splattering Lynn's face with blood and chunks of brain. Lynn gasped like a woman falling into icy water, and her hands fell away from the .50 cal and went to her face.

Another bullet grazed her arm, and the sting dispelled the shock threatening to overwhelm her. She grabbed the gun and yanked the trigger, blasting the grill of the Brinks and blowing out its headlights. The .50 cal clicked and her heart dropped. She grabbed another belt of ammunition from a metal box beside her and fed it through the receiver. She pulled back the side bolt, chambering the first round, and took aim moments before something slammed into the wall to her left. The world wrenched violently back like a punch drunk boxer, and screaming, women were thrown from the catwalk. Lynn held fast to the gun, her eyes squeezed closed and her teeth bared; the wall tilted toward Bartertown, and for a pulse pounding second, she thought it was going to fall, but it stayed standing.

She tentatively opened one eye, afraid of what she would see. The catwalk was empty on either side of her, portions of it missing or warped like frozen waves on a dark sea. To her right, a massive hole marred the wall. Its edge jagged and charred. Her heart slammed painfully and she realized she was cold and shaking. She looked behind her, and a number of women staggered to their feet, coughing, limping, and trembling like wet dogs. A few lay on their backs, unmoving, their guns discarded beside them. One's stomach was laid open and another's face was a pulpy mess of seeping red horror. Lynn turned back to the parapet, and the armored car was advancing, flanked on either side by soldiers, more bringing up the rear.

Taking hold of of the .50 cal, she pulled the trigger, but the gun sputtered. She blinked in surprise and frantically checked it with her fingers; the breech was somehow jammed as a result of the concussion. She whipped a harried look at the approaching army - they were gaining ground fast, the Brinks turning to avoid one of the cars. A man in back stepped on a landmine and went up in a cloud of smoke and dust. Behind her, another explosion cut through the day, dwarfing the insistent rattle of small arms fire. She jerked a frenzied glance over her shoulder; smoke towered over the roofs like an angry fist. Her chest swelled as she sucked rapid breaths, the panic promising to consume her once more. She turned and the army was still coming, fifty feet from the trench. She had to do something and fast. Looking around, she spotted a single pipe bomb teetering on the edge of the catwalk. Licking her lips, she carefully reached out her hand and grabbed it.

Turning, she pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit the fuze - it caught with a flash and hissed like a stick of dynamite in a cartoon. She lifted up on her knees; the soldiers were spread out now, and as she watched, another stepped on a landmine. His comrades tensed and ducked their heads.

Sudden anger clutched Lynn's chest. She worked so hard to build Bartertown up, to make it a safe and decent place to live, and these bastards thought they could just waltz right in and take it away, or destroy it out of spite if they couldn't. Her lips peeled from her teeth in a hateful sneer, and summoning all of her might, she leaned forward and flung the bomb at the armored car. For a moment, it tumbled end over end through the air in slow motion, then it landed on the hood and rolled off to one side. Moments later, it detonated in a ball of fire and smoke, shrapnel pelting the armor and tearing through the men along its left flank. It's front end reared up like a mighty Clydesdale, then crashed back to earth, listing to the left on its mangled front tire.

Grabbing the MP5, she pushed away from the parapet and scurried down the ladder. On the ground, a dozen women crouched behind dugouts composed of sandbags and timber planks. Gunfire echoed down Main Street and a haze of smoke hung in the air, but the lane stood empty. Crouching and realizing for the first time that he shoulder was a throbbing ball of fire, Lynn darted to one of the forts, where three women hunkered, and sprang over the waist-high wall, landing hard on her feet and dropping to her knees. She turned and laid the MP5's forestock on one of the bags. "When they come through, light 'em up," she said, her voice a panting croak that would have embarrassed her any other time, but that she didn't even register now. "Don't let them pass."

"They have a fucking bazooka," a woman with black hair said. "How can we fight that?"

Lynn didn't know. "Just point and shoot," she said, yelling to be heard of a fresh din of gunfire. An explosion sounded on the south wall, followed by another from behind her. She looked off to her left and made out the second story of the palace rising over the low rooftops. A cloud of smoke passed in front of it, and Lynn returned her focus on the carter ahead, her heart racing, adrenaline surging through her veins like battery acid. To her left, five women aimed over the top of their dugout and waited, the sounds of battle raging all around them.

Time seemed to pass at a crawl, the suspense rising until Lynn practically burst with it, then a man with an AK-47 appeared at the hole. Lynn jerked the trigger, and the MP5 spoke; everyone else opened fire too, and he spun around as bullets from a dozen different guns tore into him. He dropped, and one of his comrades called something out. A second later, a grenade flew through the crater and landed in front of the dugout on Lynn's right. The women ducked, and the bomb exploded; thick, choking gray smoke filled the air, obscuring Lynn's vision. Her stomach clutched and she pulled the trigger, swinging back and forth and firing blindly. Something hit the sandbags in front of her, and she ducked; the explosion threw her roughly back onto her ass and ripped the gun from her hands. The smoke was so dense the screams and shots were muffled, like sounds heard underwater. She staggered to her feet, her eyes stinging, and for a moment, she stood there, frozen and locked in indecision.

A bullet whizzed by her head, and that pushed her into action; fumbling for the Glock on her hip, she stumbled away, head down. Someone appeared from the smoke, a woman, then a round tore out her throat in a spurt of blood, and she fell. Lynn ran faster, pawing mindlessly at the holster, her mind a jangled mass of fear and confusion. The smoke started to clear, and she found herself on Main, shuddered storefronts looming over her on either side, once friendly but now hostile and foreboding. The main gate appeared ahead but she didn't see anyone; the world was deserted save for the distant sound of gunshots coming from every direction.

She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was following her, then started to turn but stopped dead when she glimpsed someone sitting in an alcove between two buildings, legs jutting before them in a V. In an instant, Lynn recognized the wan, mottled face, the matted, blood-streaked blonde hair, and the big, watery, pain filled eyes

Lana.

Her right hand was pressed to her stomach, blood oozing through her fingers and drenching the front of her shirt and her pants. Lynn's heart dropped into her stomach, and she flew over, dropping to her knees in front of her friend.

"Hey," Lana greeted through her teeth, her features contrasting with the pain it took to speak, "had to leave my post."

Lynn prided herself in being cool under pressure, but gaping down at the blood spurting through Lana's fingers, she seized up, all of her wits and training running away from her. "H-How bad is it?" she asked dumbly.

"Kinda bad," Lana said sardonically.

A gunshot rang out to Lynn's right, and she jerked around. She could just make out dark silhouettes moving through the smoke, her people or theirs she couldn't tell. She turned back to Lana and stared at her hand. Pressure. She needed pressure. "J-Just hold it a-a-and we'll get you to the infirmary."

The infirmary was across town in the direction she came from. There would most likely be invaders between here and there, popping out of every nook and cranny like psychotic jack in the boxes. That didn't matter, though, Lana was hurt.

She slipped her arm under her friend's shoulder and tried to help her to her feet, but Lana cried out and went limp as soon as he butt left the dirt. "Ahhh, fuck! Put me down! Put me down!"

Lynn carefully sat her back on the ground. She looked at the swirling smoke again; six dark shapes approached slowly, deliberately, and Lynn's heart slammed. She jerked the gun out of the holster, took aim, and squeezed off two shots; one of the forms dropped and the others dispersed, taking whatever cover they could find. She fired a third, then turned back to Lana. The younger woman's face was the color of milk, and the blood just kept fucking coming.

If they didn't get her help soon, she was going to die.

Lynn felt herself starting to panic again, and wrestled for control of herself. They couldn't walk...a cart! They needed a cart! Forgetting all about the invaders currently laying waste to her home, focused entirely on her friend, Lynn got to her feet. "Stay right here, I'm gonna get a cart then we'll get you to the infirmary."

"Not going anywhere," Lana said.

"Good." Lynn looked around. Men called to each other in the smoke and firing continued on the two unbreeched walls. Where were there carts?

Someone emerged from the smoke, and jumping, Lynn brought the Glock up and fired; the round took him in the arm and he stumbled back with a cry. She needed to get rid of these assholes if she was going to help Lana.

"If anyone comes by," she said, "play dead."

"I won't be playing in a minute," Lana panted.

Lynn knew. God, did she know.

Remembering seeing a line of carts next to one of the stables, she took off in that direction, her boots pounding against the dirt and her arms pumping, each forward thrust sending pain into her wounded shoulder.

Alone, Lana flopped her head back against the wall behind her and took a deep, shuddery breath. People yelled, guns shot, and the burnt tang of smoke irritated her eyes and nostrils. She shifted positions, her teeth gritting at the burst of agony in her stomach, and picked up her revolver from the ground. She had no intention of playing dead; she was going down swinging, fuck them.

A man's voice called, "Forward!" on her left, and she slipped her finger through the trigger guard; she was cold and light-headed and keeping her eyes open took so much effort she trembled. The edges of her mind were starting to tinge with warm wool and her heartbeat stilled. So this is what dying was like, huh? It wasn't all that bad. Better than being a biker's rape toy the way she was before Bartertown.

Footsteps brought her out of her reprieve, and she sat her gun hand on her lap. A man holding an AK-47 out in front of him appeared, looking off to his left, and Lana lifted the gun; it weighed a thousand pounds but she did it. She squeezed the trigger, and the round took him in the cheek - blood and shards of teeth exploded from his mouth and he spun around, then fell. Another man came up, dropped to one knee, and stared straight ahead, thinking the shot came from there. Ha. Dumbass. Lana lifted the gun again, and he whipped his head around just in time to catch a bullet to chest; he fell over and thrashed in the dirt, a gurgle rising from his throat as blood flooded his lungs.

A third man appeared, this one tall with a shaved head and an ugly scar running from his forehead to his chin. A Tec-9 hung from a strap around his shoulder and his hands, clad in black fingerless gloves, gripped it loosely, without tension, as though he _weren't _in the middle of a war. He looked curiously down at the bodies. Grinning, Lana lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.

_Click_.

Her smile faltered and she did it again.

_Click-click. _

He turned to face her and their gazes met; his eyes twinkled like ice and one corner of his mouth twitched up in a crooked, self-satisfied smirk. Lana pulled the trigger one last time.

_Click._

With nothing else to do, she threw the gun at him; in landed well short in the dirt, and he tittered madly. She watched warily as he strode over, an animal backed into a corner. Her heartbeat picked up again and her stomach wrenched. For the first time all day, she was truly _scared_.

The man loomed over her and looked her up and down as though she were a strange and disgusting bug. Lana swallowed and tried to control her breathing but failed; she panted through her nose and shook lightly, hating herself for showing her fear but unable to stop it.

"If you used a semi-auto," he said, "you wouldn't have ran out of ammo so soon."

"Fuck you," Lana spat.

Smirking, he brought the Tec-9 up, and before Lana could brace herself, he fired; hot lead tore into her chest and stomach and blood burst from her mouth like vomit. Her head flopped back, and the last thing she saw before she sank into death was the desert sky, as flat blue as always, as cool and indifferent as it was before her...and as it would be _after_ her.

The woman slumped over, blood gushing from a dozen holes in her torso, and Chandler sniffed obnoxiously. He looked around, realized he was alone, and shook his head in disappointment. He expected the fighting to be fierce, but _this _was fucking retarded: He started the day with 27 men and now he had no one - even the medic was dead. Their weakness sickened him; he made it through, why couldn't they? He glared at the dead woman; her eyes stared sightlessly back, her jaw slack and blood gushing from her lips. Good job, bitch, real good job, you got two of my men. Give yourself a pat on the back. As least this end of town was -

"YOU BASTARD!"

Something crashed into him from the side, low and fast like a speeding Maserati, and he almost lost his footing; his hand shot reflexively out and closed around a brown ponytail. He yanked the woman's head back and sneered when he recognized her.

Quick as lightning, she smashed her fist into his cheek, and his grip loosened. She pulled away and hit him again, this time in the chest. He stumbled back a step, and they faced each other like two boxers in a ring, the woman in a defensive position, shoulders hunched, fists guarding her face, swaying from side to side.

She wanted to fight hand to hand, huh? That sounded fun.

Chandler slipped the Tec-9 off and tossed it into the dirt. The woman glowered at him over the tops of her fists, and with a flourish, he balled his hands in a posture identical to hers. "Go on, honey," he goaded, "take a shot." She danced toward him and threw a right hook that he easily side-stepped. He hit her between the shoulder blades with a quick jab, and she staggered forward. Whipping around, she threw another punch, this one connecting with his right shoulder. Sweet, cathartic pain spread out from the wound, and laughed. She hopped back, bobbed and weaved, then came forward. Toying with her now, like a cat with a mouse, he jumped back and slammed the heel of his palm into her temple, driving her nearly to her knees. She threw out her elbow and clocked him in the jaw. This time, the pain wasn't so sweet.

Flashing, he grabbed her by her hair and flung her back; her feet tangled and she fell to ground in a puff of dirt. She jumped back up, and Chandler, deciding to end it now, rushed her. She ducked to the side and punched him in the kidney as he passed. His knees went weak and he almost lost his balance.

Seething now, he turned around and she jumped back. "Come on," she panted, "pussy."

Snarling, he lowered his head and threw himself at her. She stepped to one side but he anticipated and corrected his course; he her stomach with his shoulder and they spilled to the ground. She landed hard on her back, and before she could recover, he scrambled on top of her, one hand going to her throat and squeezing.

Panic burst in Lynn's chest and she cracked her fist against the side of his cheek, but it didn't faze him. He tightened his hold, and her lungs ached for air. She thrashed from side to side, trying to throw him off, but he was too strong. He planted his knees firmly on either side of her, drew back his hand, and slapped her hard across the face; stars danced and whirled in her head, and he did it again, this time the other side, the knots of his boney knuckles digging into her flesh. Her face stung sharply and her ears rang; her chest throbbed from lack of oxygen and grayness began to creep across her vision.

In that moment she knew she was going to die.

The man's lips peeled back from his crooked teeth in a fevered smile and his eyes shone with the mindless bloodlust of an predator losing itself to savage rapture. Hysteria mounted inside Lynn's chest and she clawed frantically at his sallow cheek, tearing skin, drawing blood, but oh god impossibly he wasn't deterred; he didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't even winced as his flesh ripped and blood oozed from his wounds. He showed no sign that he even felt it. In fact - and maybe it was panic clouding her perception - he seemed to like it.

Darkness was beginning to spread over her. If she get him off, she would die.

An image of Lincoln's face flickered across her rapidly fading mind; tears stained his cheeks and sharp, soul withering _misery _festered in his eyes. A long time ago, he lost his wife and daughter, and while they hadn't spoken of it at any length, she could _feel _the pain radiating from him. He loved them entirely and losing them almost killed him.

Losing her would finish the job.

She couldn't do that to him.

Closing her eyes and sinking into the blissful embrace of death, where nothing could ever hurt her again, was appealing, but for him, she fought. Digging deep, she found a hidden reserve of energy and thrashed violently against the man's grip. He pressed his thumbs into her windpipe, his jagged nails biting her skin. Their gazes locked and in an instant, Lynn knew what to do.

Summoning all her might, she gritted her teeth, dug her nails into his cheeks, then plunged her thumbs deep into his soft eyes. He let out a throat rending scream, and his hands released. Capitalizing, Lynn shoved and rolled to the side, knocking him onto his ass. Blood gushed from his gaping sockets and his eyes slid down his face like globs of snot. He held his hands to his temples in gesture of madness and wailed in agony. Lynn stumbled to her feet and lurched to one side. The man curled up on his side and went on screeching, his body shaking and his legs twitching. Lynn stared dazedly down at him, lightheaded and dizzy from the protracted lack of air.

_BLAM! _

Both Lynn and the man jumped in time, the former with a gasp and the latter with a death rattle and a squirt of blood across thirsty hardpan. Leni, her dress rumpled and her delicate face smeared with dust, lifted the barrel of her gun to her lips and blew away a curl of smoke. "Like, no one messes with my friends."

Lynn smiled bemusedly, already numb, cold, and sluggish with shock.

"I would have come over here sooner," Leni explained, "but I was busy killing bad guys."

That struck Lynn as funny, and she laughed...then started to cry.

Frowning, Leni came over, took her in her arms, and hugged her tightly. "It's okay," Leni said and comfortingly stroked Lynn's back, "I left a couple for you...but then I killed them too. Sorry."

Lynn tried to reply but couldn't, so she hugged her friend back instead.

* * *

For what seemed like an eternity, Lincoln floated, the darkness around him rent by strange and inexplicable sounds that he knew he should be able to place but couldn't. Wispy illumination appeared in the distance like daybreak on the horizon, and with it a cacophony of queer and threatening noises. He tried to pull away like a timid goldfish, but unseen hands grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him forward, dragging him into the light. His eyelids peeled open, then narrowed against the stinging glare. His head spun and a dozen aches and pains riddled his weary body. He tried to lift his hand to his throbbing temple, but something lay on top of him. A loose sheet of corrugated metal. Frowning in confusion, he pushed it off and sat up, his stomach turning and hot, pulsing misery expanding against his skull. He slapped his palm to his forehead and fought against a wave of nausea.

Where was he?

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he looked around; twisted metal, beams, and a portion of catwalk surrounded him like the after effects of a giant child's temper tantrum. A woman lay on her stomach, a jagged piece of steel jutting from her back, and Lincoln's breath caught. In a flash, it all came back to him: Being on the wall, shooting, the tank…

He turned his head, and there it was, 250 yards out and creeping toward him like a lumbering ghoul from one of those stupid Romero movies. Ground troops walked next to it on either side. Gunfire rattled to the east, north, and south; he glanced at the gate, and the women on the catwalk traded shots with invaders. He looked toward Lynn's position, but the buildings flanking Main obstructed his view.

Ahead, one of the men stepped on a landmine and was blown into the air. He came down in front of the tank, and its big tracks ran him over, 200 yards now, getting closer and bigger.

Baring his teeth, Lincoln pushed himself to his feet and stumbled on a fallen strip of metal. Three dugouts, protected by sandbag walls, faced him in a rough V shape. Women couched behind them and anxiously watched the tank come, rifles at the ready. Lincoln took a step and his ankle screamed in agony. He hissed and forced another, lurching and slipping on the debris. A loud explosion sounded from Lynn's position, and his heart skipped a fearful beat. Clear of the wreckage, he shambled to the closest dugout and half-climbed, half-fell over the top, landing in a heap between a blonde and a brunette. He got to his knees and leaned against the sandbags; the tank drew nearer, one corner clipping the front end of a Chevy that would have exploded if he had the switch box.

From here, he had a better view of the wall, or what was once the wall - the shell totally destroyed it, and most of the bits and pieces comprising it came down on the trench, knocking the pikes from their moorings and forming a bridge between Bartertown and the outside world. If luck was on his side the tank's weight would be too much and it would sink when it tried to cross, but he doubted it - he wasn't an expert, but he did know that they were designed to traverse difficult terrain, including hills, trenches, and culverts. Dug at a rough 105 degree angle, the ditch along Bartertown's western flank was designed to stop cars, motorcycles, and pick up trucks, not something as hardy as a goddamn Abrams.

"What do we do?" the blonde asked, a stricken edge in her voice. She clutched an M&P 15 with an under barrel grenade launcher to her chest like a superstitious peasant with a crucifix. The tank was 150 yards away and closing fast. The brunette stared down the sight of her AR-15 and squeezed off a shot. A man walking along the tank's right front corner dropped, and the one behind him lifted his rifle to his shoulder and returned fire; the three of them ducked, and the women in the other two dugouts fired back.

"First, we gotta take out that fucking tank," Lincoln said.

"How do we do _that?" _the brunette asked.

Lincoln looked around and spotted three pipe bombs sitting against one of the walls. He picked on up and shook it. "Stick it in the turret or toss it under the tracks."

"Will that work?" the blonde asked incredulously.

He didn't know, but it was the only thing he could think of. "We're gonna find out." Another explosion told him someone else stepped on a mine. "Before that, we gotta take care of those guys on the ground." He lifted his head over the wall in time to see one of the tank's followers take a bullet to the chest and drop to his knees. Someone behind him must have retaliated, because a round struck one of the women in the other dugout and she fell backwards. Lincoln poked his head up and counted eight men on the right - he couldn't see how many were on the left or behind it. Next to him, the blonde popped up and pulled the trigger, wildly spraying bullets. The brunette did likewise; two men on the right went down, one landing on a mine that tore him, the other guy, and a third behind them to ribbons.

The tank's turret rotated slightly to the right, and Lincoln's blood ran cold. A split second later, a terrible roar filled the day, and a shell landed to his right; the ground jumped and the air turned suddenly hot. He was thrown roughly to the left, and for a horrible moment he was flying through the air, arms and legs kicking. He came down hard and his ankle twisted, sending a burning jolt of pain up his leg. Frightened screams and pained moans beat against his eardrums, and the clatter of gunfire sounded from all sides, disorienting him. Dirt, rock, and sand fell over him like rain, pelting his back, and the bitter smell of scorched earth jammed itself into his nostrils.

Dazed, he pushed himself up to his knees and looked around. The blonde, who was closer to the point of impact, lay on her side, the left half of her head caved in, and the brunette sat in a heap with her hand pressed to her forehead. The other two dugouts were obliterated and littered with bodies, but a few of the women managed to survive and sheltered behind a car parked next to the main gate. He tried to get to his feet, but vertigo crashed over him and he swayed drunkenly back and forth. Baring his teeth, he stood and nearly fell; his entire body hurt and he could feel blood oozing from a wound along his scalp. When he put weight on his ankle, tendrils of stinging torment shot into his brain and his knee buckled. He looked down at his hand and saw that he was still holding the pipe bomb.

The tank was less than fifty yards from the trench, so close he could clearly hear the metallic squeak of its wheels. A couple women on the catwalk running the length of the north wall turned their attention to it and opened fire on the men lining the left side. The right stood clear, but Lincoln caught flashes of movement from around the corner suggesting there were still soldiers following. Spinning in a circle, Lincoln spotted the blonde's gun, lurched over, and picked it up. He jammed the pipe bomb into his pants, dropped to one knee, and lifted the rifle butt against his shoulder. The brunette tried to stand, fell over, then gave up, rolled to her stomach, and crawled off, drawing herself to a sitting position behind a metal barrel. Lincoln stared down the rifle's sight and lined up his shot; wrapped his finger around the grenade launcher trigger; waited until he caught another glimpse of movement; jerked. With a hollow _ump, _the shell left the gun and arched through the sky, coming down even with the tank's back corner and exploding. He aimed again, this time over the tank's gun deck; the round whistled as it sailed past the turret, then burst on the other side.

Thirty yards, and the tank was seemingly alone. Lincoln slung the M&P over his shoulder, got up, and staggered toward the debris field. The women on the wall were back to firing at whoever was on the other side, telling him the tank was clear, and the ones on the ground were dead or seriously wounded, one sprawled on her back and another sitting against the wall and holding her guts in with her hands, her face pale and her eyes wide with shock. Lincoln's stomach knotted and he forced himself to look away; the tank rolled onto the scraps filling the trench and jostled from side to side as the metal shifted and dipped. He yanked the pipe bomb from his pants and felt in his pocket for a lighter.

Nothing.

His heart sank, and fighting to keep from panicking, he felt in the other pocket, finding it with a sigh of relief. Metal crunched beneath the tank's tracks, and with a low, guttural _vroom, _it sped up and shot over the heap, coming down on the hardpan beyond like an astronaut stepping onto Martian soil, completely in Bartertown now. The desert behind it was empty save for blackened, bomb blasted craters and dead bodies strewn about like trash. The tank came to a halt, and Lincoln lit the pimp bomb, the fuse catching with a sizzle like rain. He stumbled over, lumbering as fast as he could and ignoring the pain, and shoved the bomb into the tracks. He turned and limped away, stopping only when he heard the blast; a shudder ran through the tank's frame and the wheels jumped out of the track with high pitch grinding. The engine revved but instead of going forward, it spun impotantly in place.

A moment passed, then the hatch popped open, and Ginormous climbed out, a gust of hot wind catching his cape and fluttering it behind him. He was even bigger up close, six foot one at least and 350 pounds of sheer muscle mass. He wore short black trunks, black combat boots that reached halfway to the knee, and a bandolier over his bulging chest.

Big or not, he was a man and men die when you shoot them. Lincoln lifted the rifle to his shoulder and tracked him as he jumped off the tank. He landed on the ground in a puff of dust and faced Lincoln defiantly, his brown eyes glinting coldly behind his mask. Lincoln jerked the trigger.

_Click-click_.

Before he could even comprehend that he was out of ammo, Ginormous stalked forward in three large strides, grabbed the barrel, with one hand, and wrenched it from Lincoln's grasp. He tossed it aside and snatched Lincoln by the front of his shirt, lifting him off of his feet. Lincoln's heart jumped into his throat, then his stomach exploded in nuclear anguish when Ginormous hit him with a powerful uppercut. He let out a breathless moan and went limp. "Puny beta-cuck," Ginormous said. He spun, and suddenly Lincoln was flying backwards, his arms and legs in front of him. His lower back connected with the tank, and pain burst through him. He cried out and sank to the ground.

Alright.

Now he was mad.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet with a stumble; his back ached and he was stooped, unable to stand straight, but he was going to kill this motherfucker anyway. Ginormous stood tall and proud, his chest thrust out and his fists balled at his sides, his body language challenging, inviting Lincoln to dash himself upon his muscles like a schooner on rocks. Lincoln took a shuffling step forward and Ginormous circled him like a coyote casing wounded prey. Tensing, Lincoln sprang at him; the black man threw a wicked open-handed slap that hit the side of Lincoln's head and drove him to his knees. Not giving him time to recover, Ginormous kicked him in the back; Lincoln moaned and flopped into the dust.

Ginormous walked around him like a shark, then bent, grabbed the back of his shirt again, and dragged him to his feet. Finding a reserve of energy, Lincoln pulled away and threw an unthinking cross punch at the black man's face, the hockey mask absorbing the blow and scraping Lincoln's knuckles. He followed up with a quick left jab that struck one of Ginormous's pecks with a meaty _thwock_. Ginormous shot out his arm, grabbed Lincoln by the throat, and held him up, feet kicking and dangling off the ground. Lincoln threw a flurry of desperate punches, left-right-left-right, battering the mask. Ginormous simply squeezed harder, and Lincoln's eyes strained from their sockets. Frantic now, Lincoln plunged his thumbs into the mask eye holes and pulled; the elastic band holding it in place snapped, and it came off in his hands, revealing the black man's nightmarish countenance. Gaping, noseless nasal cavity, teeth ringed by tattered lips, lumpy flesh, misshapen features, fat vein-like scars. Lincoln's jaw dropped and the fight was shocked out of him.

Snarling as if outraged by being exposed, Ginormous carried Lincoln over to the tank, lifted him up, then chokeslammed him down on the front end. Lincoln's head burst with pain and unconsciousness threatened to overcome him. Ginormous balled his fist and brought it down on Lincoln's midsection, making his back arch. "You did this to me," the black man hissed, "you burned me!"

Ginormous grabbed him and flung him to the side; he landed hard on his back and the air went out of him in a rush. He tried to sit, but the fascist fell on him, kicked him in the chest and knocked him back. Next, he squatted on Lincoln's chest and wrapped his hands around his throat. Their eyes met and Lincoln lashed out, hitting the monster in his ruined nose. Ginormous screamed and let go; Lincoln hit him again, then rolled him off and staggered to his feet. Ginormous sat with his shaking hands pressed to his face and Lincoln panted to catch his breath.

With a growl, Ginormous stood and staggered drunkenly. Lincoln jumped forward and jabbed the side of his face. The black man's head whipped to one side, then, without warning, he launched himself at Lincoln and speared him to the ground. His deformed face oozed blood and tears, and before Lincoln could react, he slammed his fist down; Lincoln's lips split and his teeth cracked. Ginormous lifted his hand again and crashed it into Lincoln's eye. He drew back a third time, but stopped, his eyes flicking up. He started to speak, but a report rang out, and his throat exploded in a gush of blood. A second came, then a third, followed by a fourth, bullets tearing into his face and bursting out the back of his skull. He gurgled, swayed, then crashed to one side like a mighty felled oak.

Lincoln's head swam and blood filled his mouth. He rolled to his stomach and lifted his head. Lola, clad in a pink robe, lowered her revolver, her eyes spacy and faraway. The gun dropped from her hands, and she sat heavily in the dirt.

The last thing Lincoln heard before he blacked out was her high, kneading sobs.

* * *

It was all quiet on the northern front.

Fang, real name Norman Roberts, leaned over the hood of a 1994 Chevy Bronco parked lengthwise across a dirt road and studied the distant village through a pair of binoculars. Thin, black smoke filtered into the sky, suggesting the fires were dying, and a few women in white stood on the catwalk, one watching him with her own binoculars.

It was late afternoon, and silence, crashing after the persistent clatter of gunfire and death, lay over the desert like a funeral shroud. His and Needles' divisions, both unable to get through, fell back and linked up after sustaining heavy casualties - they started with sixty-two men apiece, now they had a combined total of twenty-eight. Fang's plan was to retreat to a safe distance and await further orders...but they never came. The dash mounted CB in the Bronco crackled with dead air, and when he tried to radio Chandler and Ginormous, he got no response.

For an hour, he watched the wall and found no signs of life. He figured there would be a signal if they got through, but there wasn't, and something stirred deep inside of him.

Fear.

_Watu's _victory over Bartertown was assured, and he never once thought for even a second that they would lose, yet that's exactly what seemed to have happened.

Unless both sides killed each other. He envisioned the desolate streets clogged with rubble and dead bodies, and swallowed around a lump in his throat.

Finally, an hour ago, he sent a team of six men out in a pick-up truck. They made it to within twenty feet of the main gate before a .50 cal mounted on the wall opened up and rained hell down on their heads. Presently, it sat on flat tires where it had for the past sixty minutes, steam rising from its hood and corpses scattered around like a field of debris.

"What now?" Needles asked from beside him.

Lowering his glasses, Fang nervously prodded his metal teeth with the tip of his tongue. What _was _next? If Ginormous was dead (unthinkable that morning, but likely now), there was no leader, no one to give orders and hold everything together. There was no mission, no war, no _point_.

His first instinct was to launch another assault and try to break through. Ginormous might be dead, but he and the others weren't; they needed those women...and their gas...and their gardens and livestock and everything else the vineyards of Bartertown bore.

But they didn't need it bad enough that he wanted to wind up like Chandler and Ginormous. He flashed back to the stiff fighting earlier in the afternoon, to all the bullets and bodies and smoke. They say war is hell, but he'd always enjoyed it...until today.

How many people were back at camp? Thirty-five, he thought. That put _Watu's _numbers at about sixty. Of them, ten were women. Those weren't the best demographics, but they were a hell of a lot better than the ones they had that morning. "We go back," he said, "and we move on."

Needles clenched his jaw and stared at the huddled fort in the distance. It didn't look like he relished just giving up, but he wasn't stupid; he didn't wanna die either. "Then what?"

"The same thing we always do," Fang said.

"Who's gonna lead us?"

Fang shrugged. "You and me, I guess."

The punk considered for a moment, then reached down and drew the pistol from the holster on his hip. "You mean me."

Before Fang could react, the barrel was pressed against his forehead. His heart skipped a beat and -


	18. Epilogue

Lincoln came awake to stinging sunlight. His thoughts were muddled and his body ached. He tried to move, but pain ran through him like boiling acid. He winced, lifted his hand to his forehead, and blinked his eyes. The world, at first a blur, slowly swam into focus: Warm glow poured through a window across from him, bathing white walls and a line of beds, each occupied. He furrowed his brow and looked to the left; a woman lay in the bed next to him, her head wrapped in a lumpy bandage and her arm in a sling. Her eyes were closed and her breathing shallow, suggesting sleep. He turned to the right, and his heart jolted in alarm when someone leaned over the rail.

"You're awake," Lynn beamed. Her face was crisscrossed with scratches and a big purple bruise spread across her left cheek like ink. She wore a loose fitting plaid shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal dark fingerprints on her throat.

For a moment, Lincoln's head spun with confusion, then memories came flooding back: The battle, the tank, the fight with Sir. Ginormous.

"Yeah," he croaked through dry lips. "Did we win?"

Lynn playfully rolled her eyes. "Of course we did."

Taking his hand in hers, she told him what happened after he passed out. The invaders on the north and south walls, pinned down from the start, fell back and linked up in the desert, then retreated and never came back. "There weren't very many," Lynn said and brushed her thumb over his knuckles. Her tone was that of an excited girl relating her soccer team's championship victory over a rival. "A two dozen, maybe. I doubt they'll come back."

At the start of what would come to be known as The Battle of Bartertown, there were 115 defenders with roughly a dozen more sheltering in the inifarmy.. By sunset, 85 were dead and another 25 wounded. Two women died later, one before sundown and the other just after midnight, and another died the next morning. Six people lost limbs to amputation, and one was rendered paraplegic. Ten buildings were completely destroyed along with the west wall and five were so damaged that they couldn't be used until renovated. All but two of Bartertown's cars were ruined, and those two were still wired to explode. "Lisa hasn't had the time to defuse them yet."

On the plus side, Lynn and a dozen other women spent most of the previous day working on the tank - they got the wheels back in tracks and parked it near the gate. Inside were an even dozen shells. "Anyone messes with us again, and KA-BLOOEY." She grinned mischievously, and Lincoln chuckled, then winced because it hurt.

It hurt even more to hear the long list of injuries he sustained: Broken ankle, three cracked ribs, broken wrist, fractured eye socket, slipped disc, and six missing teeth, all in front, lending him the appearance of a meth addict. He prodded the holes where they had been with the tip of his tongue, and sighed deeply. "Lisa can make you dentures," Lynn said, "I already talked to her. Not that I care personally."

After the battle, Lola publically stepped down and Lynn succeeded her...at least until elections could be held. Her first decree was that everyone could go back to using their own names, which was apparently met with thunderous applause. Next, she and the other able bodied women loaded all of Bartertown's dead into carts and drove them out into the desert, where they were buried in a mass grave. The invaders were heaped in a culvert and left for the buzzards after being stripped of anything valuable. Their vehicles still littered the area around Bartertown, some wrecked, others still operable. Lynn was upset that _that sweet armored car _was beyond repair. "It's my fault," she said with a guilty little smile, "but still." As soon as she had the manpower, she said, she wanted to clear all the rubble and start rebuilding the wall. "We're gonna do it right this time," she said. "Use earth and clay and stuff, no more rinky dink metal."

When she was done, she regarded him with a soft, worried frown. "How do you feel?"

Lincoln took stock of himself: Everything hurt from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes and he was loopy from all of the drugs Lisa pumped into him while he was unconscious, but when Lynn smiled and squeezed his hand, he figured he was okay. "Not bad," he said.

"I missed you," she said. "I was afraid you were gonna die." She uttered a nervous titter and looked down at her lap as if to hide her shame.

Grimacing with the effort it took, Lincoln lifted his hand and cupped her cheek. She looked up and leaned gratefully into his touch. "I did," he said, "but I kicked the Reaper's ass and came back. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Lynn smiled then kissed his wrist. "Good. I plan to keep you around a while." She dipped one brow slyly. "I just need to get your leash and dish from Lola."

He snorted and his chest caught fire. "You're funny."

"I'm not joking," she declared.

Shortly, she leaned over the rail and kissed him, her fingers running through his hair and grazing his tender scalp - it had no reason to hurt, as far as he could remember, but it did anyway. "I love you, Lincoln," she said.

"I love you too."

"I'll be back later," she promised.

Lincoln pecked her lips, and she smiled widely. "You better be."

She stroked his face, then got to her feet and started out of the ward. Before she was gone, something occurred to him and he called out. She turned, her brows lifting quizzically, and he asked, "What's your _real _name?"

She considered his question for a moment, then answered it with one of her own. "Does it really matter?"

He opened his mouth to say that it did, but stopped. Did it? Did it _really? _With Ginormous vanquished, Bartertown stood on the edge of a new day, and so too did he. This was a rare opportunity to put his past behind him and start fresh. He could never forget his daughter or his wife, for they would always be apart of him, but he could set his sights to the future now...and hope.

"I guess not," he said.

And from that point on, the man was always Lincoln Loud, and Bartertown was always his home.


End file.
